


Creatures of the Wind, Part 2

by Sebastian_Jack



Series: Creatures of the Wind [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Graphic Description of Corpses, Humor, Meet the Family, Multi, Novel, Slow Burn, Threesome - F/M/M, Truth or Dare, Twincest, Twins, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 52,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22096030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebastian_Jack/pseuds/Sebastian_Jack
Summary: Rabastan, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix Lestrange have broken out of Azkaban. At age 16, Ophelia is a Death Eater. But she's determined to fight for the people she loves. Even if it means betraying the people who love her.Meanwhile, Fred and George are trying to cling to their childhood. But the harder they fight, the further it slips away.
Relationships: Fred Weasley/George Weasley/Other(s), Fred Weasley/Original Female Character(s), George Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Creatures of the Wind [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562572
Comments: 13
Kudos: 101





	1. Teeth the Size of Piano Keys

**Author's Note:**

> Please read this, before reading any more of my work.
> 
> My fiancee is a transgender woman. In no way, whatsoever, do I endorse or support recent comments made by J.K. Rowling about the trans community. It made me sick, that the creator of a work that means so much to me could say such damaging things about the woman I love. And yes, I debated for a long time, before I made the decision to continue publishing this work. But, at my fiancee's encouragement, here I am. Still publishing. So, I'd like to think of it as a middle-finger, in response to her recent remarks. Just remember: J.K. Rowling (a Boomer) wrote a trust fund jock who married his high school sweetheart and became a cop. Sebastian Jack (a Millennial) wrote a 1%-er who votes Bernie.
> 
> We pick up right where we left off. No twins in this chapter. The ravens have come home to roost.

Only a few short hours later, Ophelia was awoken by a jarring knock at her door. It startled her terribly, and she leapt to her feet. It felt as though she hadn’t slept at all.

“Come in,” she beckoned, donning her silk dressing gown.

The door opened, and her uncle peered inside. “ _S'habiller. Nous sortons de ce lieu misérable, et allons au château.”_

She blinked up at him, bewildered.

“ _Le Château Lestrange_.”

She stammered, “I—I’m sorry, I—”

His face darkened. “You weren’t taught French.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

He swore under his breath, bowing his head in frustration. “We’re going to the castle. Get dressed.” With that, he turned and strode angrily out into the hall. “ _Lucius_! Why doesn’t this girl know French?”

She sprinted out into the hall, stopping just outside her door. “Uncle!” she called after him, “What castle?”

He paused, smiling over his shoulder at her. “ _Our_ castle.” He turned back towards the stairs, and resumed his castigation of the Malfoy patriarch. “Lucius, _vous homme inutile_ , I’ll strike you _blind_ for this! We told you to make _sure_ she learned French!”

Despite herself, Ophelia couldn’t help but feel a whisper of a thrill, as she quickly bathed and dressed. After a lifetime spent transplanted into another family, she would finally get to see where she came from. She wondered if it would feel like a home to her. She wondered if it wouldn’t be better if she hated the place.

She wanted to cover the evil Mark on her arm, if only so she wouldn’t have to see it. But she knew the Lestranges wouldn’t stand for that. So, she donned one of her strapless corset dresses. The skirt was made up of thick folds of dark red fabric; falling above her knees in the front, and down to her ankles in the back. The corset was black leather, crisscrossed with straps and buckles. A set of knee-high black leather boots completed the ensemble.

When she descended the stairs to the sitting room, her family was waiting. The Malfoys were nowhere to be found, no doubt waiting for the Lestranges to vacate their home before they emerged. Her father smiled when he saw her, standing and opening his arms to her. She forced a smile in return, allowing him to embrace her.

“Come, my child,” he murmured, “It’s time to go home.”

With a crack, they dissolved into a cloud of black smoke. A moment later, they materialized on the front drive of _Le Château Lestrange_.

The Malfoys had a Manor. The Lestranges had a _castle_.

It loomed over her in an obscene display of wealth and power. No matter how far she craned her neck, there still seemed to be more. It was a sprawling estate, built in the French Baroque style. Steep, black-tiled mansard roofs, housing sinister, dormered windows. A number of dizzying spires were clustered together on the east side of the manor; an odd note of chaotic asymmetry. The entire structure looked as though it was bleeding. The façade was composed of bright-red brick, deep-trimmed with black. The dark-curtained windows were crisscrossed with red framing. Ophelia was awestruck.

With a crack, Bellatrix and Rodolphus materialized beside them. Catching sight of his niece’s facial expression, Rodolphus smiled.

“Oh, it’s good to be home!” Bellatrix opened her arms to the manor and cackled, characteristically obscene. When she moved to stride for the door, Rabastan caught her by the arm, yanking her back.

“Where have your manners gone?’ he scolded, earning a mocking sneer from his sister in law.

Rodolphus looked down at his niece, a proud expression on his face. “ _Viens_.” He gestured for her to follow him, leading her up the stone steps to the massive, black-iron doors. They were emblazoned with a cruel-looking Lestrange raven, its wingspan extending over two meters across.

“There’s no handle,” she remarked, scanning over the ornate surface. “How do we get inside?”

Again, he smiled. “ _Attends_.”

He took her hand in his, pressing his lips to her knuckles. She watched in silence fascination as he extended her arm, placing her palm flat against the cold metal. She jumped in surprise when, all at once, the building began to rumble. Rodolphus released her hand, and for the first time in nearly fifteen years, the doors to _Chateâu Lestrange_ began to swing open.

“No lock,” he explained, “No key. Only a Lestrange can open these doors.”

When the quartet strode, shoulder-to-shoulder, into the grand entryway, Ophelia gasped. The foyer was three-storied, encircled by columns and balconies. The ivory walls were carved with intricate bas-relief; winding snakes, wreathed with vines and flowers. A large, white-marble statue of a Harpy stood watch in the center of the room. She was bare-breasted; her wings extended demurely as she clung to a branch with gold-tipped talons. Dusty, spider-like chandeliers dripping with black diamonds hung from the vaulted ceiling, and heavy doors seemed to lead out of the foyer in every direction. Ophelia could see straight back through the Grand Salon, to the vast, Versailles-styled garden outside. The place had clearly fallen into a state of neglect, after so many years spent empty. But it was breathtaking, nonetheless.

Rabastan laughed softly, studying his daughter’s reaction.

“ _Les Malfoy pensent avoir de l'argent_ ,” Rodolphus murmured.

“The Malfoys think they have money,” Rabastan translated.

Ophelia shook her head in bewilderment. “They’re wrong.”

Her father, aunt, and uncle all laughed heartily.

“Go on and re-acquaint yourself,” her father coaxed, planting a kiss to the top of her head, “We’ll get this place back in order.”

Ophelia wandered around the house in wide-eyed awe. There was a kind of childish delight to be had, in flinging back the dustsheets to discover what treasures lay beneath. Each time, her smile broadened. Every room she entered seemed more opulent than the last. Directly off the foyer was a dining hall, with a ridiculously long ebony table. She counted 36 place settings.

She took to the gardens next, and her heart ached at her inability to use her wand. She wanted to mend it, she wanted to make everything bloom and turn green again. It was her favorite kind of magic to perform; restorative charms and transfiguration. Alas, she would have to leave it to her guardians. There was a hedge maze, near the back of the estate, which she avoided. It had an uncomfortable association, these days. Then, beside a fountain in one of the more overgrown areas of the garden, she found a rather disturbing scene. A quartet of tiny, unmarked graves, all of varying age and overgrowth. And, lying beside them, was the bleached skeleton of a House Elf, clutching a shovel. It was then that she noticed the finger bones sticking out of the section of turned earth nearest to him.

He’d died burying his last family member, and no one had been there to bury him.

Revulsion took hold in the pit of her stomach, and she had to turn away. She’d tell her father about it. He’d clear it up. But it wasn’t something she could look at, anymore, and so she retreated back inside.

One of the towers, she discovered, was entirely occupied by a massive library. A spiral staircase twisted up along the book-lined walls, extending high above the array of rich, wooden desks and overstuffed chairs scattered across the ground floor. There was a wide hearth curving along the wall, and she hoped that someday she would see it lit. She could spend hours in there, alone, she thought. The idea of the wealth of ancient knowledge at her fingertips was thrilling. To her dismay, all of the books seemed to be in French.

The castle had two master suites, upstairs. One of them, she surmised, had once belonged to her parents. It was adjoined to a nearly-empty nursery. The bedroom itself was cavernous, and it housed the largest four-poster bed she’d ever seen. Every stick of furniture was black and gold, French Baroque-styled. A door on the east wall led to an ensuite, with a massive, claw-footed bathtub. She, Fred, and George could all fit in it together, she thought, and rather comfortably.

Another door led to what she could only assume was her mother’s boudoir. There was a vanity mirror, a fainting couch. And the wardrobe, _god_ , the wardrobe. It had been magically extended to the size of an entirely separate room. She walked through it in awe, running her hands along the bolts of dark velvet, the furs, the resplendent brocade. There was an entire wall of shoes, another of jewelry. Her mother had been a noble woman, indeed.

She slipped one of the garments from its hanger; a long, wine-colored frock coat. Thick laces crisscrossed up the outside of the sleeves, and the hem and wrists were trimmed with black lace. Gold buttons, high collar. It was decadent. And it had belonged to Elladora Yaxley.

Just then, a noise sounded from out in the room. Still clutching the coat, Ophelia popped her head out of the wardrobe. She expected to see her father. But instead, it was her uncle. He had knocked over a series of dusty phials, atop the vanity mirror, and was hastily attempting to right them.

She announced her presence in a soft, unassuming voice. “Uncle?”

He whipped around to face her, wearing the unmistakable look of a man who had been cornered. “Ah,” he greeted, straightening up, “I see you’ve found your mother’s things.”

“I have.”

He nodded, looking away. “She was a formidable woman,” he said, fiddling with one of the perfume bottles, “One of the true heroes of our cause.”

“I have no memory of her at all,” Ophelia admitted.

After a beat of tense silence, Rodolphus beckoned for her. “Walk with me.”

She moved to re-hang the coat, but he stopped her.

“No,” he commanded sternly, “Wear it. She’d want you to.”

Awash with a wave of pride, she did as she was told.

Rodolphus led her back out into the grey gardens, where they walked arm-in-arm down the straight, right-angled paths. Occasionally, he would draw his wand and right something. Mend a fountain, revitalize a garden bed. The place came alive in their wake, with blooming flowers, and hues of red and brown changing to green. It was beautiful.

“Did you know my mother well?” Ophelia tentatively asked.

Rodolphus’ face took on a kind of pained expression. “I’m not sure I’m the one to tell you about her,” he finally answered.

She gathered her brow, unsure of what to make of that response.

“Your father is the one to ask, child,” he said softly, shifting her arm in his grip, “Not me.”

There was a story there, she could sense it. And, for reasons that she couldn’t hope to articulate, she had no desire to hear it from her father. Not him, not that man who had cursed her with his name, cursed her with his face, and then abandoned her.

“It makes me sick, to think of you trapped in that blasted Manor, all these years,” Rodolphus mused bitterly, “A fledgling raven all alone, without her family. Was it tolerable, at least?”

She hesitated, trying to decide how to answer.

“Be honest with me, girl,” he urged, “You’re among the cherished ones, now. You’ve nothing more to fear from Lucius Malfoy.”

“It was an unkind childhood.” A diplomatic way to phrase it.

His expression darkened. “In what way?”

“Narcissa hits me,” she admitted, rather impulsively.

Rodolphus exhaled a litany of French curses, tugging his niece a little closer to him. “That vile woman,” he sneered, “How _dare_ she? Oh, don’t you worry, my dear, we shall see to it that she understands the error of her ways.”

He gave his niece a comforting pat on the arm, and Ophelia couldn’t help but feel an odd rush of vindication. She held her head high, and let a rueful smile play across her face. In a moment of boldness, she decided to try and test the waters.

“Narcissa told me, a few weeks ago, that I’m not going to marry Draco, anymore.”

Rodolphus laughed. “Is that what they’ve been telling you, all these years?” he sneered, “What would be the point of that? So they can get their hands on our vault? Our estate?”

She shook her head, stunned by this turn of events. “I suppose I don’t know.”

“No, no, no,” he reassured her, “We’ll make a better match for you than Draco Malfoy. We’ll begin sending letters to the pure-blood French families, very strategically. Get a bidding war started. We’ll find you a Rosier boy, or one of the Travers’. LeClair, perhaps. I think we could even do as well as Lafite, if all goes according to plan. They’ve a son who’d be about 26, now.”

“I went to the Yule Ball with Augustin Travers, last year.” She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said it. She didn’t want to marry Augustin Travers, or any of those boys he’d named. Didn’t know them, and didn’t care to. Her heart was somewhere else, and there it would stay. But she was searching for some sort of handle on the moment, something familiar upon which to ground herself. Something to keep her uncle talking.

“Did you, now?” he asked, seeming to be genuinely interested, “Little Augustin.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much, anymore,” she admitted.

“Oh, no?”

“He left me, halfway through, because I can’t speak French.”

“Oh, you poor girl,” Rodolphus chuckled sympathetically. “Not to worry, we’ll fix that, for you. And then that boy won’t have any cause to run away. Not from a beautiful thing like you.”

“He has a big brand,” she told him, pointing to her neck, “Some words in French, just there.”

“ _Brûlez vos ponts et restez seul,”_ he murmured, “Their family creed. Yes, he’d be 17, now. I expect they’d have gotten him started. But you, my dear,” he beamed down at her, “You’re the bearer of a Dark Mark. And that’s not something Augustin Travers can boast, now is it?”

Her stomach flipped. She tried to force a smile, but her effort fell short.

With a deep sigh, he led her over to a stone bench beside a nearby fountain., He repaired the cracked marble with a graceful flourish of his wand, and the water began to flow again.

“It’s never easy, in the beginning,” he murmured gently, “There’s pain and fear, and that can plant the seed of doubt. But you are young, still. You will learn. This is your birthright. And we are so, so close now. I can taste our victory, and it is such a sweet, beautiful thing.”

When she did not answer him, he glanced down to see her eyeing his brands with wide, glassy eyes.

“I suppose you’ve never seen anything like this before, have you?” he asked, unbuttoning his fine shirt.

From what Ophelia could tell, his lean torso was completely carved with tattoos. In the very center of his chest, he bore a perfect, anatomical diagram of a heart; the bottom half of which faded into a gaping skull. It was beset on either side by a pair of black ravens, beaks open, mid-flight. There were roses and twisting snakes, words in French. And the space between the bigger designs was peppered with innumerable arcane symbols and runes, including a rather large piece on his throat.

He smiled proudly. “The Malfoys have never had the salt for it, but we’re made of harder stuff, aren’t we? We Lestranges may live lavishly, but by my wand, we earn it. By flesh, blood, and precious, irreplaceable time, we earn it.”

She nodded, eyes traveling across the brands. They were beautiful, she could not deny. But whether she’d ever want them on her own skin was a different matter. She tentatively reached out, touching her fingertip to one of the ravens. It looked as though it were about to swoop off of his chest, and peck her eye out.

“Who did them?” she asked softly.

“My father, Reinhard. And I did your father’s. And, someday, he and I will do yours.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“You’ll want them,” he nodded severely, “I promise you that. They’re marks of protection, and fortification. Strengthen your mind, strengthen your body. They make you powerful. And, when done properly, they can even save your life. Almost akin to that accidental bit of magic that spared the Potter boy. But we move with more purpose than that. We do not trust the safety of our children to hope and coincidence.”

“Does it hurt?” she hesitantly asked.

He laughed. “Of course, it hurts. But what did I just tell you, girl?”

She bowed her head. “Made of harder stuff.”

“ _Précisément_.”

It was a lot to take in. And although it was not how she felt, she knew precisely what to say. “I’ll be honored, Uncle. Truly.”

“Well, you’ve got to earn them, first. Your name garnered you a Dark Mark, but for these, you’ll have to prove yourself.” He began buttoning up his shirt again. “I hope that day comes soon.”

“I know it will,” she told him earnestly, “I promise, I’ll serve our cause well. I’ll make you proud.”

The words made her sick to say. But Rodolphus cast her a warm smile, placing a hand on her cheek.

“I know you will, _Ophélie_.”

For the first time, she saw something more than cold fury behind his shining eyes. It was as though this time with her had dragged some life back into him. She could see love, in those dark eyes. Maybe just a whisper, and maybe only for a moment. But it was undeniably there. And it twisted her heart with conflict and turmoil.

“What about those?” she asked, pointing to the large, silver tunnels through his earlobes. “What do they mean?”

“These are just decoration,” he told her, “Nothing to be earned or proven, beyond our sense of pure-blood vanity. I’ve been trying to get your father to wear them for years. Alas, he claims his sensibilities are finer.”

“I like them,” she said with a smile. “They suit you.”

“I could give you one,” he offered, “Nice, big teardrop, on your left side. That would really get my brother wound up.”

It wasn’t something she wanted, per se. But, strangely, she found that she wanted this man to feel some happiness. At least for this blink of time, before she destroyed him. It was a harmless thing, after all. A small concession. And she knew that it would only deepen his trust in her. So, she smiled at him, and said, “I think I would love that, uncle.”

Rodolphus Lestrange was, for the first time in 14 years, beaming.

He took her back inside, and settled her into a high-backed chair in the sitting room before hurrying off to gather some tools. He made the incision with the tip of his wand, pressing it into the center of her earlobe and twisting until it burned straight through. She could smell the singed flesh, but at least that meant it wasn’t bleeding on her resplendent frock coat. The pain made her eyes water, but she didn’t cry out, didn’t screw up her face. Not even when he thumbed the hollow, silver teardrop into place, stretching the hole even further. _Made of harder stuff,_ she told herself.

Afterwards, he sat her up, handed her a mirror, and she thanked him. Never mind the unexpected heaviness of the jewelry, never mind the dull ache that seemed to be radiating all the way down her neck. She found she liked the look of it, after all. It made her seem hard. It aged her. He told her he’d get her a nice stone for it, when he could. Pick up some Obsidian, or Tourmalinated Quartz from old Mr. Borgin. Something that would keep her safe.

He took her face in his hands, and pressed gentle kisses to her eyes, told her she was brave and beautiful. She tried to remind herself that this was an evil man, who had done truly evil things. She tried to resist the warmth spreading through her chest. But, for the first time in her life, Ophelia Lestrange felt as though she were a part of her own family.

Pleased with his work, Rodolphus sent his niece off to find her father. And so, she resumed her solitary wandering through the castle, until she heard a voice sounding from the library. When she stepped into the doorway, she saw Rabastan. He was running his hands along the spines of the many books, occasionally slipping one from the shelf to flip through it. And he was singing.

“ _You gave it to me, through the eyes, hatred,_

_Centuries deep and true._

_I was wrong, graceless, and sick._

_All of the things that I had learned had been wasted.”_

His voice was not unlike hers. The way he delayed his vibrato to the point you were afraid it’d be too late to add it. The way he leapt from note to note. It hit her in an odd blend of emotion. Betrayal, revulsion. Anger at the undeniable similarity. And yet, somehow, there was a feeling like sympathy mixed in with it. Maybe even compassion. Connection.

“ _There is no living creature as foul as I,_

_And all of my poems were false._

_I could feel my soul, dropping down through the night._

_I had to leap up before I hit the floor,_

_And I’m so alone.”_

The last note hung in the air, he dropped it down a minor third. His hand waved in the air, conducting a silent, imaginary orchestra. And then Ophelia did something she hadn’t planned to do.

“ _Illumination held out in front of my reaching arms.”_ The melody was high and piercing, but it came through clear on her voice.

Rabastan whipped around to see his daughter. And for the first time in many, many years, he felt a pang of genuine happiness. He was shocked to have recognized the emotion, after more than a decade without so much as a whisper of it. But there she stood, reminding his heart what it felt like.

“ _The darker things get, the better I see_.” She knew the song.

They sang the last line together, an octave apart. “ _I’m so alone, and so are you, we all live and die that way.”_

He breathed a cathartic sigh, tears springing to his eyes. And, just as had happened with Rodolphus, she felt akin to him. The years spent under the Malfoys thumb melted away. All of Narcissa’s blows, all of Lucius’ spite and vitriol. He was here, now. Loving her. And isn’t that what mattered? No longer just a panicked, tear streaked face; a criminal swallowed up by the Aurors’ manacles. He was home, now, dressed in his regal clothes. Fed and rested, and returning to his former glory. And, for the briefest of moments, Ophelia actually forgave him.

Rabastan opened his arms to his daughter, and she went to him. She pressed her face into his shoulder, felt his arms wrap around her.

“I love you.” He murmured it over and over, like a desperate prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It felt jarring to hear, shaking loose some of her resolve. It made her think of the twins. She said it back, of course. But only once, and very softly. Even still, she felt the words tug uncomfortably at the pit of her stomach.

“I see Dolph finally talked someone into getting one of his _idiotic_ earrings,” he chuckled, leaning back to take in the sight of it.

“It hurt terribly,” she admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

“Ahh, but you’re a hard one,” he said with a proud smile.

That seemed to be something that Lestranges put a lot of stock in. Being hard.

“He’s been hounding me over it for decades,” he continued, “Whispering about it through the prison bars, the madman. In some of his more unhinged moments, over the years, he would try to insist its why we got caught in the first place.”

“Because you didn’t have earrings?” she asked, a bemused smile crossing her features.

He grimaced slightly, shaking his head. “Azkaban prison is like a dull knife, twisting in your guts, Ophelia. Madness is such a poor descriptor. It tangles you up, inside; hollows you out. Replaces every good thing in you with pain. I hope, with all of my heart, that you never see the inside of one of those cells.”

She furrowed her brow. “I hope that, too.”

“I’d die, before I let them take you,” he impressed, tugging her back into his arms, “Truly.”

She didn’t know what to say, how to react. She wanted to know about her mother, but didn’t want to ask. Not him, not now.

“Rodolphus sent me to find you,” she awkwardly relayed, “He says you need to remember to eat, and he wants us all to dine together.”

“Yes.” He exhaled sharply, clutching her to his chest, “Yes, we’ll be a proper family, for once.”

They were. The last Lestranges in England gathered in their dining room, that night, and shared in a rich, decadent meal together. Rodolphus sat at the head of that long, ebony table; a patriarch in noble resplendence, surrounded by his family. They laughed together, telling this perfect, beautiful child of theirs all of the happy stories they knew. Stories about good times, when they were young together. She felt loved. Wanted. Important.

Afterwards, they retired to the salon with a bottle of wine. Rabastan lit a roaring fire in the hearth, and Rodolphus filled all of their glasses. Ophelia sat on the floor, in front of the sofa, and let her aunt weave intricate braids through her hair. Bellatrix was like a wild animal, finally released from her cage. She seemed slightly out of place, among the rest of them; with her flyaway hair, and her ripped clothing. She was obscene, she was theatrical. And she and Rodolphus never touched. Once Ophelia noticed it, it was impossible to ignore. Not a single kiss was shared between husband and wife, not so much as a squeeze of the hand. But they loved their beautiful niece. That much was clear.

And then, all at once, reality came crashing back down in an apocalyptic wave. The trio began reminiscing about the past, and planning for the future. They regaled her with the story of their great escape; how they'd whispered secret promises to the Dementors, and gained their favor. They gossiped like children about Augustin Travers, planning how they would orchestrate the match. The trio talked at length about how he and Ophelia were destined for such terrible greatness together, and how they relished the thought of all the lives that would surely end at her touch. They wanted to know all about Barty Crouch Jr., and the time she spent with him. When she revealed that he’d taught her the Unforgivable Curses, the pride and vindication in their eyes made her sick. They described, in terrible detail, the litany of horrors they would deliver upon the Weasleys. Upon Neville Longbottom. Upon Dumbledore.

She would have liked to paint out all of their hateful words, and focus instead on the cadence of their voices. The sound of her name, as it was spoken by her father. But she forced herself to listen. Forced herself to remember. This is who these people were. And nothing would ever, ever change them.

It was a stark reminder of her intention, here. She wanted to see them destroyed, even if it destroyed her, too. _That_ was her birthright, not a Dark Mark and the chance to bear Travers children. Nevertheless, she could not deny: the sense of belonging was beyond decadent. The experience of being loved by her own family was, perhaps, even more intoxicating than the wine.

After a time, Ophelia’s eyelids became heavy. So, she climbed up onto the couch to lay with her head on her father’s knee. The mood turned light again, as he and Rodolphus tried to teach her phrases in French. They were endlessly amused by her shaky pronunciation, laughing and teasing her.

She fell asleep, there. Wrapped in her mother’s frock coat, with her father’s warm handprint moving across her back, and the guilt of enjoying it gnawing away at her heart.


	2. Came Back Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm messing with the canon, a little. But I needed O to know she's not alone, in her terrible position. There's been one other.

It was a dark and perfect day, and Ophelia, Rodolphus, and Rabastan were posed together in the Malfoys sitting room. The brothers were each reading in silence, while Ophelia reclined in a high-backed chair and clung to a long, black cigarette. Each time she exhaled, the smoke was a different color. Red, purple, blue, green, and orange; tracing thin, baltering wisps towards the high ceiling. Bellatrix was nowhere to be found, but none of them cared. She always spoiled the mood, anyway. And this was all quite regal.

Lucius stepped into the room, casting his former ward an openly disdainful glance. With a scoff, he strode over to Rabastan.

“I wish you wouldn’t let your daughter smoke in my house,” he hissed angrily.

Rabastan didn’t even look up from his book. “I wish my daughter hadn’t grown up with your accent. But here we are, and no one is happy.”

Ophelia couldn’t help but chuckle, exhaling a blue cloud towards Lucius.

He whipped around to face her, scowling furiously as he cried, “This is still my house!”

She sucked her teeth at him. “ _N’importe quoi_.”

Rabastan cast her a wry and proud smile.

Lucius was whipping himself into a frenzy. “How _dare_ you, you—”

“Careful.” It was Rodolphus, glaring at him from behind his book. “ _Putain de blaireau_.”

Lucius rounded on him. “Where is your wife?” he needled.

Rodolphus scoffed, idly flipping pages. “Choose your next words very carefully, Malfoy.”

Ophelia had a feeling she knew where Bellatrix was, and what she was doing. She’d seen her trailing after the Dark Lord, heard the whispered plans. But she also knew that Rodolphus didn’t care. For a moment, she hoped that he and Lucius would duel over it. That would make for fantastically good fun. Alas, the tension was broken when Severus Snape apparated into the room.

Rodolphus rose to greet him, wrapping him a warm embrace. “ _Mon amie_.”

“I’m here for the girl,” he announced, looking down at Ophelia. “We have work to do. And we may be a few days.”

She nodded in understanding, vanishing the rest of her cigarette with a snap of her fingers as she stood. “I’ll gather my things.”

He cast her a subtle sneer. “Quickly, please. I haven’t got all day to wait on you.”

Ophelia hurried up to her room, and began shoving things haphazardly into a magically-extended bag. She was frightened, she realized. Perhaps not frightened, but anxious. It was hard to pinpoint precisely why, but it couldn’t be ignored. She donned her mother’s frock coat, and that seemed to bolster her strength.

She returned to the sitting room to find that Bellatrix had re-appeared. She was flitting around Snape, needling away at him as only she could. Snape, for his part, looked ready to hex her. At the sight of her niece, however, she lost interest in him.

“Here, sweeting,” she coaxed, handing her a sheathed dagger, “For you.”

Ophelia unsheathed it, inspecting it in the light. It was a long, silver-bladed stiletto; its black hilt carved with intricate runes. “What’s it for?” she asked.

“Little secret about wizards,” her aunt divulged, “They’re always prepared for your curses, but they never know what to do about a dagger flying towards them.”

“Thank you,” she said genuinely, re-sheathing the blade and slipping it into her pocket.

“I wouldn’t keep it there,” her aunt heeded, “Strap it to your leg. Much harder to find, when they search you.”

She nodded. “I will.”

“Good girl,” her father praised, wrapping her in an embrace. “We’ll see you in a few days.”

“Alright.”

Rodolphus took her face in his hands. “Make us proud, _Ophélie_ ,” he commanded, kissing each of her cheeks in turn.

“Take care of my daughter, Severus,” Rabastan urged, “You bring her back to me in one piece.”

He gave him a polite nod. “You have my word.”

With that, he took his charge by the arm, and Disapparated into a cloud of black smoke.

They re-appeared in a darkened alley, quiet city sounds all around them.

“Here—”

Ophelia looked up to see Snape shoving a piece of parchment into her hand.

“Read it quickly, and memorize.”

She squinted down at it, in the low light.

_The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

She recognized her Professor’s own handwriting.

“Alright?” She looked up at him, perturbed and confused. “And?”

All at once, the parchment burst into flames. She dropped it hurriedly, watching it smolder and curl on the pavement beneath her.

She shook her head. “What was all that?”

“We have a short walk,” Snape said curtly, “Come.”

“Where are we?” she asked, as they strode out onto the sidewalk.

It was a Muggle suburb, as far as she could tell. The few people they passed eyed them dubiously, giving them a wide berth. Ophelia imagined they must’ve looked quite strange, to them. With her corset dress and frock coat, and Snape’s billowing black robes.

“We are in Islington, London.”

“And we’re going where, exactly?”

He cast her a sidelong glance, ignoring her question.

After a few minutes, they found themselves on a narrow street, housing a long row of expensive-looking townhomes. Suddenly, Snape stopped, and turned to face the flats. After a moment of observation, she realized that they were standing outside of number eleven. She looked to the left and saw number ten; to the right, however, was number thirteen. Through the windows, she could see the Muggle occupants going about their lives. Music was playing from number eleven, children could be seen playing in the upstairs bedroom.

“Think about what you’ve just read,” Snape commanded.

Ophelia was confused, but nevertheless, did her best to focus. No sooner had the number twelve passed through her mind, than the buildings began to rumble and drift apart. A battered door emerged out of nowhere between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy, darkened windows. It was as though an extra house had been inflated, pushing those on either side out of its way. And, from what it looked like, the Muggles inside hadn’t felt a thing.

“Go,” Snape urged, “Quickly.”

Clutching at her bag, she made her way up the worn, stone steps. She eyed the newly materialized door cautiously. The black paint was shabby and scratched, and it bore a silver door knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent. A Slytherin house, to be sure. Like Château Lestrange, there was no keyhole, no doorknob, and no handle. Snape reached past her to tap the door with his wand. There came a series of loud, metallic clicks, and what sounded like the clatter of a chain. And then the door creaked open.

“Inside,” he commanded.

Ophelia stepped over the threshold into the nearly complete darkness of the hall. She could smell damp, dust, and something sweetly rotting. The place had the unmistakable feeling of a derelict building. Behind her, the door slammed shut. She whipped around in shock, only to find that Snape had not accompanied her inside.

There came a soft and sudden hissing noise, as a row of old-fashioned gas lamps sputtered into life all along the walls. They cast a flickering, sallow light over the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpet in the long, gloomy hallway. A dull chandelier hung overhead, draped with cobwebs, and a series of empty and long-neglected portraits hung crooked on the walls. There was a closed door, at the end of the hall, and a rickety, off-kilter staircase leading up to the left.

“Wotcher, Ophelia!”

The voice made her jump, and she looked up to see a figure at the top of the stairs. She emerged into the light, revealing herself to be a witch. She was relatively young; no more than 25, with a bright, kind, heart-shaped face. She was dressed, admittedly, quite similarly to Ophelia. Tartan pants and a faux-corset top, with a long, burgundy duster. Her hair was short-cropped and bright pink, and she had multiple piercings in her left ear.

“I’m so glad you made it!” she said, bounding down the stairs and throwing her arms around her. “Snivellus just dropped you here, eh? What a pal he is.”

Ophelia was taken aback, bristling slightly against the embrace. “I’m sorry, do we…? Do we know each other?”

“Yeah! I’m your cousin!” she announced, “Tonks! Andromeda’s kid!”

“Oh!” she realized, relaxing slightly, “Of course! Nympha—”

“Nope,” she interrupted, chuckling, “No, just Tonks.”

“Alright, then,” Ophelia conceded, “Just Tonks. Where, er… Where are we?”

“Bloody hell, he didn’t tell you a damn thing, did he?” she marveled, “This is headquarters!”

“Of the Order?”

She nodded, beaming. “It’s Sirius’ place. He inherited it from his mum, after she died. I reckon Harry’ll get it, next.”

“It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Ophelia remarked, looking around, “Right in the middle of all the Muggles.”

Tonks shrugged. “You get used to it. They’re not particularly observant, are they? Anyway, I can show you to your room, if you’d like. You can drop your stuff, before everyone else gets here.”

“Everyone else?”

“Yeah,” she said, “There’ll be a meeting, a bit later on. Mad-Eye, and Remus, and the Weasleys. Kingsley may even show up, I reckon.”

Ophelia’s face lit up. “The Weasleys are coming?”

“Yeah! They’ve been here loads, this past week. Molly’s dead-set on whipping this place into shape. I think Ron and the twins are about ready to stage a revolt.” She gestured towards the staircase. “Shall we?”

Ophelia nodded gratefully. “Yes, I suppose we shall.”

They started down the long, dark hall. Pressing her finger to her lips, Tonks led her on tiptoes past a set of long, moth-eaten curtains. Ophelia could only imagine what was behind them, that would necessitate such quiet. Tonks tripped over a large umbrella stand that looked as though it had been made from a severed troll’s leg, instantly freezing. She halted Ophelia, casting the curtains a wary glance. After a moment, she beckoned to her, and they continued on. They made their way up the dark staircase, past a row of shrunken heads mounted on plaques. After a moment, Ophelia realized that they all belonged to house-elves.

“What was all that for?” Ophelia asked, nodding back down the stairs.

“Portrait of Sirius’ mum. And trust me, you don’t wanna wake her. She’s a bloody nightmare. I reckon she’d fancy you, though.”

She led her down the upstairs hall, and into a small, cramped bedroom. The door was monogrammed with the initials R.A.B. Ophelia didn’t even have to ask.

“This was Regulus’ room, when he was a kid,” she explained, “Sirius says you can have it, though, when you’re here.”

“Is Sirius here?” she asked, setting her bag down on the floor beside the black-sheeted bed.

Tonks shrugged. “He’s around, somewhere. Probably not even up for the day, yet, the lazy sod. Anyway, this entire place is protected by a _Fidelius_ charm, and you’re a secret-keeper, now.”

She nodded, finally piecing together the strange ritual Snape had performed in the alley.

“So, you know,” she chuckled, “Don’t tell anyone.”

Ophelia nodded severely. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

“You’re safe here, you know,” she impressed, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Grimmauld Place is protected by virtually every hex and charm known to Wizardkind. Dumbledore saw to it personally. You-Know-Who could be standing right outside, and he’d have no idea you’re in here.”

Her touch felt strange, and Ophelia had to make a concerted effort not to shy away from it.

“I’m sorry,” she finally stammered, taking a step back, “I’m a little… Overwhelmed, by all of this.”

Tonks nodded in understanding. “Yeah, tradecraft is like that, isn’t it? Leaves you all mixed up. Like you’ve got whiplash.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “Precisely.”

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” she said kindly, moving for the door. “I’m sure you’ll hear it, when everyone starts to arrive. If not, I’ll pop by and grab you, yeah?”

Ophelia forced a half-smile, genuinely grateful for her understanding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it!” she grinned, “We’re family!”

With that, she was gone.

Ophelia sank to the bed, for a moment, burying her face in her hands. Tonks was right; it did feel like whiplash. And it was suddenly very, very hard to remember who she actually was, or what she was actually doing. She tried to picture the twins, and focus on their smiling faces. The feel of their hands against her skin. Though it had only been a week since she’d seen them, it felt like a lifetime had passed.

She’s been short with Snape, she realized. Short with Tonks. Talking like her father and uncle, she knew. She hoped that it wouldn’t be a hard habit to break.

After a moment, Ophelia rose abruptly to her feet. She shook out her limbs, trying to steel herself. Leaving her bag where it was, she strode from the room. Perhaps exploring the house would help unhinge her from the Lestranges.

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place was a strange building, to be sure. Decaying and mismanaged, but clearly once-regal. Not unlike Château Lestrange, she realized. The door at the end of the downstairs hall led to a kitchen, and through it was another hall that housed three more bedrooms. And, she discovered, a broad drawing room. And it was there that Ophelia Lestrange stumbled upon the massive tapestry, depicting the family tree of The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.

She approached it with a tentatively outstretched hand, eyes scanning intently across the sprawling web or portraits. So many faces, so many names. All of them her forbearers.

An unfamiliar voice sounded from behind her. “I see you’ve found the family.”

She turned to see a tired-looking man, nobly dressed. His shoulder-length black hair was streaked with grey, the same color as his eyes. Beneath the open collar of his silk shirt, she could just make out a series of black tattoos, not at all dissimilar from the ones on her father and uncle.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Ophelia,” he said gently, “You don’t know me, but I’m your cousin—”

“Sirius,” she finished for him, forcing a smile, “Yes, there seems to be quite a lot of that going around, these days.”

He returned her smile, extending a hand, which she gratefully shook. “It’s good to finally meet you, Ophelia Lestrange.”

“And you, Sirius Black.”

He took in the sight of her, eyes lingering briefly on her covered left forearm, the stretched hole in her left earlobe. “Dumbledore speaks very highly of you,” he said, “As do Arthur and Molly. I’ve heard you’re close with two of their boys.”

She nodded, blushing despite herself. “The twins have been better friends to me than I deserve.”

He cast her a kind smile. “Well, I’m sure that can’t possibly be true. Just don’t let them get you into too much trouble.” He gave her a wry wink.

“No,” she laughed, “I think they get me into just the right amount of trouble.”

He beamed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Good girl. If only you knew the sorts of things James, Remus, and I got up to, back in our day. I’m sure you’re doing the Marauders’ legacy proud.”

She genuinely hoped they were.

“So,” she sighed, turning back to the tree, “This is the family.”

He nodded pensively, following her gaze across the wall. “This is me, here,” he said, pointing to a charred, black mark, “My mother did that they day I left home. The one beside it is my brother, Regulus. You’re up in his old bedroom. They disowned him, too. Oh, he’d have loved you.” He smiled wistfully. “He died just a few months after you were born.”

“What was he like?” she probed, desperate for any information at all. Anything to bring her closer to this place, to him.

Sirius seemed to consider it for a moment. “Bold,” he revealed, “Careless, at times. But he had an uncanny penchant for staying out of trouble, no matter what he did. He was another spy for us. Another one who bore the Dark Mark, and used it against Voldemort.”

Ophelia smiled. “Yes,” she murmured, “Yes, I think I’d have loved him, too.”

“And, of course, here you are,” Sirius remarked, pointing to her portrait.

She hadn’t noticed it, at first, crammed all the way down in the left corner. It was a kind of enhanced version of her; darker, crueler. Her features seemed exaggeratedly beautiful, her expression haughty. It made her at once aware of her own facial expression, and she worked consciously to soften it. Above her were her parents. Rabastan looked the way she remembered him, the day he’d been taken off to Azkaban. Young, handsome, and long-haired. And her mother… God, her mother. She was beautiful. Golden-haired, blue-eyed. She could see where she’d inherited her lips, her frame.

“Originally, this was meant to depict main-bloodline Blacks only,” Sirius explained, “But it’s been expanded, over the years, as more and more of them married Sacred 28. The family was just _thrilled_ when Bellatrix married Rodolphus. More thrilled than either Bellatrix or Rodolphus, to be quite honest.”

Again, the portraits of her aunt and uncle seemed to depict a kind of enhanced beauty. Young and strong and regal.

“What do you mean?” she asked, remembering the way they’d treated one another at the Château.

Sirius sighed, retreating across the room to sit in one of the high-backed chairs. He motioned for her to join him, so she took her place in in the chair opposite.

“Your aunt Bellatrix has only ever loved one person,” he explained, “And that person was Tom Riddle.”

She was baffled. “Lord Voldemort?”

He nodded. “She fell in love with the man he was, before he became the Dark Lord. And she’s been by his side ever since. But, as you well know, Voldemort is incapable of such a thing as love. And so, it remains unrequited to this day.”

“And Rodolphus?”

“Rodolphus,” he breathed a short laugh, “He only ever loved Elladora Yaxley.”

“My mother?”

“That’s exactly right,” he nodded, “He loved your mother. Both of the Lestrange brothers did. But the family wanted the Lestrange eldest for their eldest, so that’s the way it was done. A marriage of appearance. A strategic move, to preserve bloodlines, or some other such nonsense.”

“So Elladora married my father—”

“—and Rodolphus resents him for it to this day.”

She nodded pensively, putting the pieces together. It made sense, based on what she’d seen. “It seems as though that’s a Slytherin trait, doesn’t it? Unrequited love.”

“Well, Salazar Slytherin himself loved a woman who did not love him back. As did Snape, and the Bloody Baron. And Voldemort’s mother used a love potion on his Muggle father. Some think that’s why he’ll never truly understand love.”

She was astonished. “Voldemort is a half-blood?”

Sirius grimaced. “Yes. And therein lies the very worst of his hypocrisy, don’t you think?”

“Half-blood,” she repeated, shaking her head in disbelief, “I never knew that.”

“Yes, well,” he chuckled, “I wouldn’t suggest ever bringing it up around him.”

Her gaze drifted back towards the sprawling family tree. Draco was the only face on the same level as hers, and for once, she thought it was a perfect likeness. Narcissa and Lucius were posed protectively overhead, looking to be absolutely fraught with nobility.

“Did you know my parents?” she asked softly.

Sirius nodded. “Yes, I knew them.”

“What were they like?”

He sighed deeply, trying to search for the right words. “They found the wrong path early. But after a lifetime spent around evil people, everyone knew where they’d end up.”

“No,” she shook her head, “That’s no excuse at all. Look at you and me. Regulus. Andromeda Tonks. Familiarity cannot justify complacency.”

He gave her a soft smile. “No, of course not.”

She swallowed hard. “What were they like, in Azkaban?” She dreaded the answer.

Sirius considered it for a moment. “Your mother was quiet. Kept to herself, mainly, like she accepted her fate But, for some reason, the Dementors seemed to take a liking to her. Nothing she did could keep them away. I think she hoped that, if she stayed out of trouble, they’d let her out, someday.”

“Do you think they would have?”

He gave a definitive, “No. Never. Not her, and certainly not the others. Your father…” he sighed bitterly, “Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange were the worst people ever locked up in that prison.”

She knew, at once, that she didn’t want to hear why. But she also knew that she needed to. She had to understand the dark truth of these people, to counterbalance the intoxicatingly sweet way they’d presented themselves to her.

So, before she could try to talk herself out of it, she asked, “What did they do?”

“The Dementors made a very big, very stupid mistake, when that crop arrived,” Sirius explained, “They didn’t put the Lestrange brothers next to each other; that would have been bad enough. Instead, there was one cell between them. And within a week of their arrival, that man had killed himself.”

She was floored. “What?”

He grimaced against the memory, his gaze drifting away. “They whispered. That’s all they did, just whisper. All day, and all night, driving him mad. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and I’m glad of it. After six days, he smashed his own head against the wall until he died.”

Ophelia’s face went pale, but Sirius did not relent. She needed to hear it.

“We listened to him bang away at himself for hours. He’d knock himself out, and then a few minutes later, he’d be right back at it again. When he finally died, the Dementors carried him out past my cell. He didn’t even have a face anymore.” He shook his head in bitter dismay. “I don’t even remember what he was in there, for.”

“Oh my god,” Ophelia whimpered softly, biting back on the nausea rising in her throat. “Why? Why would they do that? What would possibly be the point of that kind of—”

“Sport.”

The silence that followed was long, and heavy.

“The Dementors split them up, after that,” Sirius said, “Put them on different floors. But then, they managed to get everyone between them to pass messages. They’d bicker with each other, in that fashion. That was a foolproof way to get the entire prison wound up. Their curses would just ripple around in spirals, back and forth, back and forth, up and down the tower.”

She was baffled, still trying to reconcile this description with the men who had been so kind and loving towards her.

“A lot of the prisoners thought it was great fun. People would take sides, try to keep it going by corrupting the messages. Adding their own insults.”

“I wish I could’ve known them, before they turned into that,” she finally said, her voice much smaller and weaker than usual, “Maybe it would’ve changed things.”

“I don’t think there ever was a _before_ , for the Lestrange brothers,” he told her, “And I don’t think anything would’ve changed it. I think they were born that way. And if there weren’t a Lord Voldemort, it would be one of them, instead.”

She looked down at the frock coat she was wearing, fiddling uncomfortably with the lace cuffs. “Then I wish I’d known my mother.”

“You wouldn’t have seen much of her, would you?” he realized, “No, I suppose not. She was one of Voldemort’s most trusted spies, during the last war. You look like her, you know.”

Ophelia was surprised to hear it, cautiously looking up to her cousin.

“I know people must always compare you to your father, but I can see some Ella Yaxley in you, yet.”

She could feel an odd rush of pride building in her chest, and then tamped it down in a panic.

“They’re evil people,” she insisted, more as a reminder for herself than anything, “The worst people ever sent to Azkaban, you only just said so. What my mother did to those Muggles, what the rest of them did to the Longbottoms, and then that other prisoner—”

“—is not your fault,” he interrupted, voice conveying no lack of finality. “You are not responsible for the sins of your parents, no matter what people may try to tell you. And you should feel proud that you’re doing everything you can to keep those sins from being repeated.”

She nodded, trying her hardest to believe it. “Every generation has its rebellions, I suppose.”

He smiled, amused by her attempt at a downplay. “That’s very true.” He seemed to be waiting, giving her space to speak. It was something that no one had ever done for her, before.

“When I’m with them for too long, I can feel myself getting pulled into it. Maybe it’s the blood in my veins, or…” She hesitated. “They _love_ me, Sirius. I think they really do. And it feels so wrong to exploit it.”

“I can’t tell you if it’s right or wrong,” he said, entirely unsatisfyingly, “No more than I can tell you if it’s right or wrong to love them back.”

She shook her head, somehow more confused than ever. “I love the twins,” she said, trying to ground herself on something familiar, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had in my life.”

“And Lord Voldemort wants them dead.”

She nodded in sick understanding.

“I do not envy you, the position you are in, Ophelia,” he said gently, “Forced to choose between what is safe and easy, and what is right.”

“I don’t see it as a choice,” she confidently announced, “I can’t. It doesn’t matter how easy it would be, for me to sit back and allow this to happen. It’s wrong. And I’m in a position where I can do something about it, so I will. I’ll die, if I have to.”

“And therein lies the difference between you and Severus,” he beamed, “His is such a selfish, privileged love; he’s never been able to see past— _Kreacher_! What are you doing, skulking around like that?”

Ophelia whipped around to see a house-elf creeping up beside her chair. He was perhaps the oldest elf she’d ever laid eyes on, with tufts of white hair protruding from his bat-like ears. His skin was sallow and excessively wrinkled, and he was peering up at her with massive, glassy-blue eyes.

“No, no, no,” he muttered in a voice like a bullfrog’s croak, “Not the beautiful Lestrange girl, Master, _anyone_ but the beautiful Lestrange girl…” He reached out, placing a cold, spider-like hand on her arm.

“Keep your filth away from her,” Sirius commanded, and the elf withdrew his hand.

“Master talks of filth,” he grumbled, “While he sits and fills Miss Lestrange’s pretty head with talk of betrayal and Mudbloods and all _sorts_ of—”

“Enough of that.” Sirius swatted him away from his cousin. “What is it you want?”

Kreacher bowed deeply, though there was a certain disingenuous quality to the gesture. “Kreacher has prepared a meal for Master and his most honorable guest.” And then, in the barest attempt at an undertone, added, “Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but Kreacher does as he’s told, while Master lazes about his mother’s house, such an ungrateful boy—”

“Alright, Kreacher, that’ll be all. Away with you, now.”

The elf slunk away, muttering under his breath.

Sirius stood, offering a hand out to Ophelia. “Shall we? He’s a nasty little beast, but he makes good eggs.”

She took his hand gratefully, rising to her feet. “I’d be delighted.”


	3. I Would, For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back!!

An hour or so later, Ophelia and Sirius were seated together at the long dining room table. They chatted idly as they finished their breakfast, about such delightful, unimportant things. Her best subjects at school, her O.W.L. results, and all of the dubious things she and the twins had accomplished with the Map. It was an odd moment of quiet contentment, for her. It was a taste of what it was possible for the word “family” to mean. The Weasleys were due any minute, but the pair waited patiently. Sirius, perhaps, more patiently than his cousin.

Then, out of the silence, there came a pair of loud cracks, sounding either side of Ophelia. She screamed in pure delight at the sudden appearance of the proudly-grinning twins.

“ _Hey, there!”_

“You’re _here_!!” she shrieked, jumping to her feet and flinging her arms around them, “You’re really, really, _here_!”

Sirius blinked in surprise, leaning away from her shrill noise. Still, he couldn’t help but smile. It reminded him of so many happy moments from his own youth.

The twins lifted her off her feet, each pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting her down again.

“Don’t you look posh!” George teased, taking in the sight of her new coat.

“Too posh for the likes of us, I reckon,” Fred added.

“What happened to your _hair_?” she wailed, reaching up to run her fingers through it. It was unbelievably short, but still characteristically unkempt.

“ _Mum_ ,” they grumbled in unison.

“Oh, no!” she giggled, a hint of sadness to be heard in her voice, “No, not your pretty, pretty hair! What on _earth_ am I meant to do with you, now?”

Sirius chuckled. “Throw them out and start over, I’d say.”

“Hey, thanks a lot, Sirius!” George remarked, “You’re a real pal, aren’t you?”

“Never mind that!” Fred hooked his pinky through the hole in her earlobe, tugging gently. “What in the world is this meant to be?”

“Ow!” She swatted him away, clapping a self-conscious hand over it. “Mind your business!”

“Well, I think it rather suits you,” George complimented, taking her hand away to inspect it again. He ran his finger lightly around the shell of her ear, sending a shiver across her skin.

“Oi,” Fred interrupted, taking her face in his hands, “You’ve not given me the greeting I’m due.” He dragged her into an urgent kiss, pressing his lips hard against hers. It felt to her like going home.

“Ah, you prick,” George grumbled under his breath. He understood, he supposed. He’d had her all to himself for months, and Fred had to make up for lost time. But with him as her established companion, George would have to keep his hands off her, lest they give the game away. At least in front of people. At least until tomorrow, when they could switch, and pretend like it had been George all along.

The pair laughed into their kiss, making no effort to stop on his account. What finally caused them to spring apart was the blast of heat from the fireplace, telegraphing the imminent arrival of the rest of the Weasleys. They filed out of the green-glowing fireplace; Arthur and Molly, Ginny, and then finally Ron.

“Sirius!” Arthur greeted, wrapping his arms around him.

“Ah, you’re covered in soot!” he teased, struggling comically against his friend’s embrace.

Tonks came bounding down from upstairs, screeching in delight to see the Weasleys. Kingsley, Mad-Eye, and Remus arrived in quick succession, stepping over the hearth and into the already-crowded kitchen.

Fred stood behind Ophelia, wrapping his arms over her shoulders and holding her tight. She hung her hands from his wrists, smiling as she watched the happy blend of reunions and introductions. Fred kept pressing possessive kisses to her temple, George eyeing him bitterly as he did.

“I’m Ginny,” their sister said, extending a hand towards Ophelia as she approached, “I don’t think the twins have ever properly introduced us.”

“No, I suppose they haven’t!” she realized, taking it gratefully. “Ophelia.”

“Ahh, yes! How very _unmannerly_ of me,” Fred mocked in an overdone imitation of her accent, “May I present, dear sister, the Lady Ophelia Belladonna Yaxley Lestrange!”

“Why, of the _English_ Lestranges?” George implored, mirroring the accent.

“Why yes, _indeed_!”

She struggled playfully against Fred’s hold on her. “Shut your mouth.”

“The three of you are too bloody tall,” Ron grumbled, stepping over to join them. “You alright, O?”

“ _No_!” the twins shouted, so loudly that Ophelia jumped.

Ron was indignant. “What?”

“No, I didn’t like that,” George announced, “Not at _all_.”

Fred corroborated, “Yeah, that’s Madame Lestrange, to you, boy.”

For the first time, Ophelia realized that she stood about four or five inches taller than the youngest Weasley son. In such close proximity, he actually had to look up to see her face.

“My word,” she marveled, “You _are_ a little one, aren’t you? I’ve only ever seen you sitting down.”

Fred, himself three inches taller than his lover, reached out over her shoulder to tousle his brother’s hair. He, too, had been on the receiving end of Molly’s barbering.

“It’s alright, Ickle Ronnykins,” he condescended, “Maybe if you eat all your vegetables, then someday you’ll be a big boy, too.”

“I reckon if we hang him upside down, the weight of his head will stretch his legs out,” George remarked.

“I reckon you’re right,” Fred agreed, “Shall we give it a go?”

Ron flattened his hair back down with a quick, angry jerk of his hand. “Get stuffed.”

“Alright!” Mrs. Weasley announced, shooing her children from the room, “We’ve got to have a short meeting, and then we’ll get to it, alright?”

“ _Why can’t_ we _stay for the meeting_?” Fred and George demanded in unison.

“You boys know the answer to that,” their father sternly reminded them. “Go on, off you get.”

Fred pressed another kiss to Ophelia’s cheek. “Come and find us after, yeah?”

She laughed, shoving him away. “I’ll hide from you for as long as I can manage!”

The Weasley children took their leave, closing the door to the kitchen behind them. Ophelia didn’t know the reason that Arthur had given the twins, to keep them away from the meeting. But she could guess. It was likely the same reason she didn’t want them there: they didn’t need to know the things she’d seen and done.

As Molly had promised, the meeting was quick. Ophelia didn’t have much to tell them, yet. It was mainly introductions, reunions, and explanations of everyone’s roles.

Ophelia filled them all in on her Occlumency progress, careful not to divulge too much. She told them about Lestrange Manor, and the minor comings and goings of the Death Eaters. The biggest news had been in regards to the Dementors, and that seemed to visibly frighten them. It had been decided that Remus, Kingsley, Mad-Eye, and Sirius would collectively decide what information to have her pass along. For her own protection, she would not always know if it were true or not.

At Dumbledore’s request, Harry himself was to receive no correspondence regarding the Order’s existence or activities, until further notice.

“He has some suspicions,” Remus explained, “And so, for Harry’s safety, we must keep him in the dark for a little longer.”

“What suspicions?” Ophelia had asked, “Surely I could help—”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” he interjected, “And I doubt any of us will ever be told.”

“Dumbledore knows what he’s doing,” Kingsley reassured her, “Trust him.”

“I just feel useless,” she admitted to them, “I haven’t done anything, yet.”

“Your time will come,” Sirius told her, and she was surprised to hear a hint of foreboding in his voice.

“This is the calm before the storm, my dear,” Arthur imparted sadly, “I think, soon, we’ll all be wishing we had so little to do.”

It had been decided that she’d stay at Grimmauld Place for a few days. Snape would visit to work with her on Occlumency, the Order would compile some intelligence for her, and then she’d go back to the Dark Lord. It was a good plan, although she found it altogether unsatisfying. There was a kind of panic that seemed to hum constantly, just under her skin. Nobody else seemed to feel it, but she did. It was all she could focus on.

Voldemort had _touched_ her. Azkaban had been liberated. They needed to _act_.

When the meeting was over, she wandered through the house in search of the twins. Eventually, she found them in the dusty library, inspecting the sprawling family tree with concerned expressions. Her heart sank a little to see it.

She silently stepped up between them, slipping her hand into Fred’s, and resting her chin atop George’s shoulder.

His voice was soft and sad as he asked, “Are all evil people so… I dunno, so beautiful?”

She gave a pensive sigh, following his gaze across the collection of portraits. “I’m not sure, love,” she answered honestly, reaching up to comb her fingers through his short hair. “I suppose a lot of them are.”

“It’s like the Dark Arts does something to them,” Fred observed bitterly.

She nodded. “Yes, I imagine that’s probably true.”

“Where are we, then?” Fred asked, “In all of this?”

She scanned the wall for a few seconds, trying to figure it out. “There—” she stood on her toes and put her finger on the portrait of Arcturus Black II. “That’s your great grandfather. He married Lysandra Yaxley, and they had your grandmother Cedrella. And then your _mother’s_ grandmother was Lucretia Black, over here.” She pointed to a nearby portrait. “So, you’d be around in this area, somewhere.”

They nodded in silent understanding, trying to make sense of it.

“And I’m all the way over here—” She traced the lines across the wall, until she landed on her own portrait. “So, we’re related through Lysandra Yaxley, I think. Your great grandmother, and my… I don’t know, I suppose she’s my great, great aunt.”

They grimaced a little at the suggestion, which she couldn’t help but be quietly amused by.

“That’s what being pure-blood means, my darlings,” she gently explained.

George needed to change the subject. “This looks nothing like you,” he remarked, gesturing to her portrait.

“Yeah, I agree,” Fred corroborated.

“No?” she smiled faintly, “I didn’t think so either.”

“Good likeness on the Malfoys, though,” George pointed out, “Just as ugly as they are in real life.”

The descriptor seemed an odd one, but she understood what he meant. The Malfoys were, through no fault of their own, very physically beautiful. But beneath the veneer, they were twisted, hideous people.

The question Fred asked next was one she’d been expecting, but it was still difficult to answer. “Did Draco get a Mark, too?”

She shook her head.

“ _Why not_?” they probed in unison.

“I’m not sure, really,” she answered honestly. “Maybe he doesn’t have a use for him, yet. But I don’t think Voldemort’s very happy with the Malfoys right now.”

The twins winced at the sound of his name.

“Then why’s he staying in their house?” Fred asked.

“To keep them under control, I’d imagine. They’d do anything to hold his favor, but it’s for the wrong reasons. They want more money, more power. And I think he’s afraid they’ll betray him, in the end.”

“Do you think they will?”

She sighed deeply, gathering her brow. “Narcissa, maybe. But Lucius is a coward. I could never see it, before, as I was always so afraid of him. But I can see it, now. And I think, before this is over, Voldemort will try to take their son away from them. I think that’s what they’re most afraid of; the Malfoys. But if he’s not careful, that’ll be the thing that truly turns them against him.”

But not her father. No, not Rabastan Lestrange. He had offered her up on a platter, _begging_ Voldemort to use his daughter. Desperate for it. Her gaze travelled across the faces of her family; the collection of high cheekbones, piercing eyes, pointed chins. Evil names, downturned lips. She wanted to set fire to the entire wall. Burn the tree to ashes.

“You look like him,” Fred remarked, “Your dad.”

She nodded sadly. “I know I do.”

“He’s really handsome, I think,” George observed.

“You just say that ‘cause mum lopped all your hair off,” Fred teased.

“He’s really tall,” she told them, “About a head taller than either of you.”

George laughed softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “The pieces are starting to come together on you, Lestrange.”

“I don’t know where I fit,” she admitted oddly, tugging Fred a little closer to them. “I can’t count myself among the orphans of war, can’t count myself among the children of the Order. But… I look at these people, and… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel as though I belong with them, either.”

Fred snaked an arm around her waist, giving her a gentle shake. “You don’t, love.”

“Count yourself among Sirius and Regulus,” George commanded.

“Count yourself among _us_.”

She couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah,’’ George chuckled, “ _We_ know where you fit.”

With that, he took her by the chin and drew her up into a kiss. It felt as though her entire body had exhaled in relief, and she leaned into it gratefully. Her hand slipped up the back of his neck, and she moaned softly into his mouth. Fred gripped her hand a little tighter, rubbing his thumb across her palm in his characteristically possessive way. George took her face in his hand, holding her tight against him. Her back suddenly collided with the wall as he kissed her, and she dragged Fred along by the hand.

An abrupt knock sounded from the door, and they instantly sprang apart. It was a tiredly disapproving Mr. Weasley.

“Alright, Freddie, that’s—” He paused, looking between his sons in confusion, before eventually settling back on the one who’d been kissing her. “That’s enough of that, now. Think of your mother.”

“Sorry, dad,” George apologized, making a point not to correct his father.

“Come on,” he beckoned to the trio. “It’s time to get to work.”

“ _Dad_.” Fred sighed animatedly, leaning back limply.

“No, I don’t want to hear it, George,” he said confidently, “We’ve all got a job to do.”

He gave his sons another careful inspection as they filed out into the hall, blinking in confusion. As soon as the trio was around the corner and out of sight, they collapsed into one another, hands clapped over their mouths to stifle their laughter.


	4. ...And When I Start to Scream, I'm Really Calling to You

Everyone was meant to be helping to fix up Grimmauld Place. It had been ill-tended by Kreacher while Sirius was in Azkaban and ill-tended by Sirius since then. But, as it was to be the headquarters of the Order, everyone felt as though it needed some attention. Unable to use magic, Ophelia resigned to following the twins about the house, helping any way she could. It was great fun ordering them around and making them cast spells on her behalf.

The first room they entered, Fred and George began rifling carelessly through the trunks and cabinets, searching for whatever curiosities they could find. But when Ophelia pulled back the moth-eaten, faded green curtains to let some light into the room, she was met by a shrieking Doxy, fully grown, and violently angry at having been disturbed. She screamed in shock as its shiny, beetlelike wings beat at her head, needle-like teeth snapping, four tiny hands clawing for her eyes.

“ _Oi_!”

The twins were across the room in an instant. Fred snatched the Doxy expertly out of the air, cupping it in his hands, while George yanked her away from the now-buzzing curtains.

“You alright?” George chuckled.

“It just surprised me, is all,” she said, more than a little indignant as she extricated herself from his hold. She wasn’t as delicate as all that, they ought to know.

Fred peeked in between his fingers. “Blimey, this is a big one. Fine work, Lestrange. Georgie, gimme a hand, will you?”

As gently as possible, George slipped the tip of his wand between his brother’s fingers, and muttered a quick, “ _Stupefy_.”

“Ahh, that got him nicely,” Fred praised, opening his hands to inspect his prize. “Thanks.”

“What could you possibly be planning to do with that?” Ophelia probed suspiciously.

“ _Skiving Snackboxes_.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“Hey, you didn’t get bitten, did you?” George asked, stepping back over to inspect her face and neck.

“No.”

“Damn,” Fred muttered, slipping the unconscious Doxy into his pocket, “Could’ve saved us some testing if you had.”

She scoffed. “Thank you very much!”

“Should we have a go at the rest of those?” George nodded towards the curtains.

“Yeah, I reckon we should. Before mum storms in here and—”

All at once, there came an explosion of sound from downstairs. Mrs. Weasley was shouting at the top of her lungs.

“WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!”

“Speak of the Devil, eh?” George murmured.

“I love hearing mum shouting at someone else,” Fred smiled wistfully, “It makes for such a nice change.”

“—COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN’T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGING STOLEN CAULDRONS INTO THE HOUSE—”

“Who’s she shouting at?” Ophelia asked, looking between them.

“ _Dung_ ,” they answered in unison.

George shook his head in dismay. “Those idiots are letting her get into her stride. You’ve got to head her off early, otherwise she builds up a head of steam and goes on for hours. And she’s been dying to have a go at Mundungus for ages.”

“What?” Ophelia chuckled, and though she could imagine any number of perfectly justifiable reasons, she asked, “Why?”

“He’s meant to be keeping a discreet eye on Harry—”

“—but he’s not doing a very good job of it.”

“And apparently, he keeps nicking stuff from around here, like valuable heirlooms and whatnot, and selling them off.”

“Probably to your old pal Borgin,” George teased.

“Oh, god, and there goes Sirius’ mum, again,” Fred remarked bitterly, as Mrs. Weasley’s screams were joined by those of the portraits in the hall.

Fred grimaced, moving to shut the door. But before he could, Kreacher slipped past him, into the room. The elf made a big, obvious spectacle of ignoring the trio as he shuffled for the far end of the room.

They could hear him muttering under its breath, “Smells like a drain and a criminal to boot, but she’s no better, nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my Mistress’s house! Oh, my poor Mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they’ve let in her house, what would she say to old Kreacher. Oh, the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do?”

“Hello, Kreacher,” Fred said very loudly, closing the door with a snap.

The house-elf froze in his tracks, stopped muttering, and then gave a very unconvincing start of surprise.

“Kreacher did not see Young Master.” He turned and bowed to Fred, before adding a perfectly audible, “Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is.”

“Sorry?” George prodded, “Didn’t quite catch that last bit.”

“Kreacher said nothing,” he assured, bowing to George and adding in a clear undertone, “And there’s its twin, unnatural little beasts that they are, doing their awful, nasty things to the beautiful Lestrange girl—”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll nail you up on the wall,” Ophelia snapped, stepping up to him.

“Poor Young Mistress,” he grumbled, “Doesn’t know what’s good for her, if only she’d listen Kreacher, listen to her brave father, and cast the filthy little beasts away—”

Fred had heard enough. “Kreacher, we’re about to stir up a massive nest of Doxies, in here, and I think I fancy using you as bait!”

The elf’s moon-like eyes widened, and his muttering took on an even more furious pitch as he shuffled for the door.

“I think I’ll clear out as well,” Ophelia announced, “I don’t much like the idea of you using _me_ as bait, either.”

“No?” Fred laughed, yanking her into him and nipping at her ear. “Here, Georgie, I’ll hold her still, you go shake those curtains.”

Kreacher made a sound like he was dry heaving, but they paid him no mind.

Laughing wickedly, George started taking big, emphatic steps across the room, hands outstretched towards the buzzing curtains.

“Don’t you dare!” she laughed.

“Oh, you’re no fun anymore,” Fred scolded, digging his fingers into her ribs.

“Yes, I am,” she chuckled, extricating herself from Fred’s hold to press a kiss to George’s cheek. “Come and find me, when you’re through with this rubbish, and I’ll prove it.”

She stepped back out into the hallway, making sure to close the door tightly behind her. Not a moment later, a cacophony of shrieks, buzzing, and the twins’ raised voices could be heard from inside the room. With a scoff and a smile, she turned, and made her way down the hall.

The first room she came upon seemed to be a repository for broken furniture; perhaps hidden away by Kreacher to keep Sirius from discarding it. Worn chests of drawers, cracked tables, fraying chairs.

A few of the shelves and cabinets contained strange curiosities, many of which seemed to actively resist being removed from their resting places. She found an unpleasant-looking silver instrument: something like a many-legged pair of tweezers. When it scuttled up her arm like a spider, she shook it away and quickly smashed it with a heavy book entitled _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_.

There was a music box that played a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when she opened it, and she abruptly found herself inexplicably weak and sleepy. Luckily, she had the presence of mind to snap it shut before the effects became overpowering. (Admittedly, she had half a mind to slip that particular item into her pocket. Influence of the twins, she supposed.) There was a heavy locket that seemed impossible to open and, a number of ancient seals. _Toujours Pur_ , and _Corvus oculum corvi non eruit_ , and other such nonsense. She even found a dusty and discarded Order of Merlin, First Class, that had been awarded to Arcturus Black for unspecified “Services to the Ministry.”

And then, unthinking, Ophelia stepped up to a disheveled-looking wardrobe. The creaking door opened with some difficulty, struggling on its long-rusted hinges. What she saw inside froze the blood in her veins.

It was Fred and George.

But it couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible.

The twins _she_ knew didn’t have skin so pale and blueish, nor did their limbs have so many joints. But they were broken, she realized, by whatever had folded them up and shoved them into that cabinet. Their eyes stared vacantly; unblinking and unmoving. Glazed over. Fred’s mouth hung open in a silent scream, George’s neck had been snapped over at a right angle, his cheek resting against the top of Fred’s head.

Her heart was hammering in the cage of her chest, the air in the room seeming to have gone completely solid, resisting her attempts to breathe. It couldn’t be real, it just _couldn’t_. She could _hear_ them, just down the hall. Laughing and joking. Normal sounds, happy sounds. But, all at once, she _knew_ that those normal, happy sounds were the lie, and the corpses stuffed into the wardrobe were the real thing. She could feel it in her bones; the terrible truth of it laying her out in a glassy wave.

Her mouth was open, but she couldn’t be sure if she was screaming, or gasping, or completely silent.

She felt something in her hand, and it was a long moment before she could work up the nerve to glance down. It was her wand, she was holding her wand. Pointed… Pointed right at… _Them_.

And then came the voice, slithering through her ears on an icy hiss.

“ _Beautiful girl_ ,” he praised, “ _Well done_.”

Finally, the scream trapped in her chest clawed its way to the surface. She dropped her wand, tripping on her skirt and falling hard to the floor, but her eyes remained fixed on George’s.

He looked so scared. Confused. Betrayed.

Her vision began to blur with tears. Heaving shallow, panicked breaths, she scrambled backwards until she felt her back collide with the door frame. She pressed her eyes shut, clapped her hands over her ears. Maybe she was still screaming, maybe not. She couldn’t tell.

 _They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead, and_ I’m _the one who_ —

Something clamped hard around her upper arm, dragging her out into the hall, pulling her to her feet. She opened her eyes just in time to see the wardrobe slam shut, and then she heard it:

“What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?” All the sweetness Fred Weasley could muster.

She sobbed explosively at the sight of them, clawing Fred over into the embrace. George took her face in his hands, the sight of her tears sending a bolt of panic prickling across his skin.

“What are you on about?” he asked, as gently as he could manage, “What happened?”

Hearing the anxiety in his voice only made her all the more frightened. Her hands balled into tight fists in their shirts, as she cried, “It’s a Boggart! There’s a fucking Boggart in there!”

“Oh, love,” George murmured, pulling her close, and rubbing his hand up and down her back.

“Where?” Fred demanded, drawing his wand.

“The wardrobe!” she sobbed, “It’s in that— That bloody wardrobe, in the corner! I didn’t know, and I opened it, and—”

“Stay here with George,” he commanded, scooping her wand up off the ground and tossing it to his brother.

“ _No_!” she nearly screamed, reaching desperately for him, “No, Freddie, don’t go in there!”

“Hey, it’s not real,” George shushed her, holding her close, resting her head against his shoulder, “He’ll be fine. He’s gonna get rid of it.”

“Yeah,” Fred said, all characteristic bravado, “I’ll be fine.” Brave and resolute, he stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him.

The pair waited with bated breath, feeling the heavy weight of each second that ticked by in his absence.

“That’s enough, now,” she called after him, loudly enough that George jumped in surprise, “You come back out here, this instant.”

No response.

“Georgie,” she begged weakly, tugging childishly at his shirt, “Make him come back out here! I don’t like—”

All at once, there came a kind of scuffling noise from the other side of the door, and Fred stumbled back out into the hall. His face was pale, wand arm shaking. For a moment, he just looked between George and Ophelia with a wide-eyed and fearful expression, the likes of which neither of them had ever seen on his face before.

And then he turned towards the stairs, took a deep breath, and shouted, “MUM, THERE’S A BOGGART UP HERE!”

.

.

.

Not long after the Weasleys had left, Snape arrived. Ophelia was up in her room, but she could hear him arguing with Sirius in the kitchen. She could hear Harry’s parents’ names being thrown around, along with Regulus’. She was torn, briefly, over whether or not she should intervene in some way. When they didn’t stop on their own, after a few minutes, she decided it was time to diffuse the situation. The two men silenced, the instant she appeared in the doorway. They both turned to look at her, shouts still echoing through the empty house.

“I have a favor to ask you, Severus.”

He gave her a brisk nod. “Very well.”

Sirius watched, intensely disapproving, as they made for the library. When the pair were finally alone, the door shut and locked behind them, Ophelia turned to her teacher.

“Cast _Muffliato_ ,” she said, “Please.”

He did as she said, but not without an exasperated cock of his eyebrow.

“Tell me: what does the Mademoiselle Lestrange wish of me, this evening?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “I do, after all, _live_ for these little moments of servitude.”

Ophelia paid no mind to his remark. She swallowed hard, steeling herself against what she was about to request of him. “I’ve been thinking, recently, and… I need to know what the _Cruciatus_ Curse feels like.”

Her words hung in the air for a long time while Severus absorbed the weight of what she’d just said.

Finally, he spoke. “Yes.”

All at once, the fear set in. “No, wait a moment,” she stammered, “You’re not going to argue with me? You’re not going to try and tell me ‘no’?”

“No,” he announced flatly, removing his traveling cloak. “You need to understand the tools that will be used to break you. And, rest assured, the day will come when you have no choice but to endure this precise torture.”

Now faced with the prospect of truly going through with it, Ophelia was terrified. “Wait, no, we should just do Occlumency. That’s what Dumbledore said to do.”

“This is just as important, if not more so.”

She took a few, hesitant steps backwards. “H-how should we…? What are you going to do?”

He drew his wand with a flourish. “I will cast,” he said softly, “Until you say their names.”

She didn’t need to ask who. And she was too apprehensive to feel any scorn at this particularly nasty tactic he’d chosen to employ. “That… Yes, that’s fair,” she conceded, her voice uncharacteristically small.

He brandished his wand towards her. “I will be as gentle as possible,” he reassured her, “This first time.”

That night, Severus had to levitate her back to her room. Though they’d been in the room less than an hour, it felt to her that days had passed. This was a pain like she’d never known before. No marks on her skin, no broken bones. But agony. Beyond anything she could’ve imagined. Beyond what her mind could take.

He finally stopped when she lost consciousness the second time. He had felt something like guilt tug uncomfortably at his conscience, when he saw her slumped against the toppled chair. She’d been trying to crawl away from him, when she’d suddenly gone limp. It had been his intention to push her until she broke. But she never did. Screamed for her father, screamed for her mother. Her uncle. But never those stupid little boys.

 _She’s stronger than anyone gives her credit for_ , he reluctantly admitted, setting her on the bed with a wave of his wand. _Despite her empty vanity, and childish nonsense. She may yet outlast us all._


	5. Oraculum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirror scrying

Ophelia began to spread her time between Grimmauld Place, Malfoy Manor, and Château Lestrange. It was challenging, to be sure, as someone would always have to side-along Apparate her. Usually Snape or her father. Occasionally, on nights she spent in Wiltshire, she would still fly out to the Burrow for a few hours. She knew the Malfoys knew she was doing it. But it was as Rodolphus had said: she was among the cherished ones. They could do nothing to her.

Gradually, she adjusted to the whiplash. It became a commonplace thing, twisting back and forth between the two halves of her life. Returning to her family felt like blowing out a candle. And then, when she saw Fred and George, they would so lovingly re-light it. But, as was bound to happen, she was beginning to burn away.

The image seemed to haunt and preoccupy her, no matter what she was doing. That slowly melting candle. What would happen, she wondered, the day it burned all the way down? The thought never seemed far away, and today was no different.

Ophelia sat before her mother’s vanity mirror, painstakingly applying her makeup by hand. It was such a bloody inconvenience, being unable to use magic. She hated having to do this the time-consuming, Muggle way, and it had been a while since she’d even bothered. She’d been at Château Lestrange for days, doing little else but sleeping and smoking. She was exhausted. And whenever she emerged from her room, her father would tail her around the house and needle her endlessly about the Order. Better to just hide while she could. But Snape was due any minute, to drag her back off to Grimmauld place for more Occlumency and tradecraft nonsense, so it was time to pull herself together.

In the reflection of the mirror, she saw her father step into the room behind her.

“Is Severus here?” she asked, tracing red coal back and forth beneath her eye.

When he did not answer, she glanced upwards, meeting his gaze in the reflection. He was… _Smiling_.

She furrowed her brow, turning to face him. “ _Qu'est-ce que_ —?” She stopped short. The room was empty. It was only then that she realized she’d heard no footsteps as he approached. No creak of the door.

She rounded on the mirror once more to find that some indescribable quality to the reflection changed. And suddenly, instead of her own face, she was looking into the bright, blue eyes of her Elladora Yaxley. She could see so much guarded fragility, in those eyes. Young and golden-haired and radiant. She was holding a baby. A baby with jet-black hair, and violet eyes. Rabastan, healthy and proud and strong, bent to press a kiss to his wife’s cheek.

“Wha—?” She raised a hand towards the glass, but the reflection did not follow her. And the moment her fingertips brushed the cold surface, her own reflection returned.

But it wasn’t her reflection, not quite. Her face was raggedly scarred and burned with tattoos, her hair streaked with silver. But she was smiling. She was happy.

And then a young boy came scampering up behind her. And though Ophelia sat still and transfixed, her reflection moved of its own accord, scooping the child up into her arms.

He had tousled, auburn hair, and violet eyes.

The Ophelia in the mirror kissed the boy’s cheek, and he seemed to laugh, though no sound could be heard.

“ _Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici_?”

The voice made her jump in shock, and she whipped around to see her father. Not young and handsome and smiling, like he’d been in the mirror. Rather, drawn and gaunt and greying.

“ _Je ne sais pas_ ,” she stammered, glancing back and forth between him, and the mirror. Once again, the reflection was true, and steady. “ _Rien. Ça n'a pas d'importance_.”

He gave her an appraising sort of look, following her gaze. After a moment, he announced, “ _N’importe quoi_. Severus is here for you.”

“Of course.” She shook her limbs out, grounding herself. “Yes, I’ll be there in a moment.”


	6. Nights Are Warm, and the Days Are Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Harry, Ron, and Hermione are the "Golden Trio", my fiancee has taken to calling Fred, George, and O the "Spicy Trio." She really oughta have creative control over this thing.

The trio were laying together in a languid heap, atop her bed at Grimmauld Place, when the commotion started downstairs. They were in a state of increasing undress, laughing and joking as they drew closer and closer to another bout of fevered entanglement. It’s all they’d done, almost nonstop. They couldn’t get enough of each other, couldn’t get enough of this sweet, beautiful, perfect thing they’d discovered.

Noise from downstairs meant little to them; there was always noise from downstairs. Snape would come by and start a shouting match with Remus, just for something to do. Or Molly and Sirius would row over Harry and Ophelia’s involvement in the Order. But when the noise started sounding just down the hall from them, they took notice.

George, who until that moment, had been having a smashing time with Ophelia’s breast in his mouth, suddenly looked up. “Harry!”

She pulled away from Fred’s kiss, bristling with offense. “What’s wrong with you?”

“No, hang on,” Fred sat up, pressing a finger to her lips, “That is Harry, out there.”

“Bloody hell, he sounds cheerful, doesn’t he?” George chuckled.

She strained her ears for a moment, and then she heard his voice again. He was shouting.

“My god, it is. When did he get here?”

“ _Dunno_ ,” the twins replied in unison, haphazardly pulling their clothes back on.

“But I reckon we ought to go say hello, don’t you?” Fred coaxed, quickly re-buttoning his shirt.

She sighed, slipping the straps of her long, black dress back up over her shoulders. “Yes, alright,” she reluctantly conceded.

“ _Brilliant_!” With that, they took her by the arms, and Disapparated.

The trio reappeared with a loud _crack_ , atop the bed in one of the rooms down the hall.

“AARGH!” Harry threw his arms up, clearly in the midst of some angry tirade.

“Will you _please_ stop doing that?” Hermione begged weakly. She, Harry, Ron, and Ginny seemed to be staging a secret meeting of their own.

Ophelia was dizzy from having been apparated so suddenly, and she clung to Fred’s shoulder for support. “Hermione, you know they won’t,” she groaned, clutching at her forehead, “Count yourself lucky they’re not dragging you along with them, everywhere.”

“Hello, Harry!” George said brightly, throwing a steadying arm around his lover, “Thought we heard your dulcet tones!”

“You don’t want to bottle up your anger like that, Harry,” Fred added, beaming, “Let it all out. There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn’t hear you.”

“Fred. George. Ophelia,” Harry acknowledged bitterly, “You two passed your Apparation tests, then?”

“With _distinction_!” Fred announced proudly.

“Honestly, it would’ve taken you about thirty seconds longer to walk down the hall,” Ron grumbled, “I know that’s where you were, over in _her_ room.”

“Time is Galleons, baby brother,” Fred winked, much to Ginny’s amusement.

“Hang on,” Harry shook his head, “How long have you lot been here?”

The twins shrugged.

“A few days, this time around,” George told him, “Been coming and going all summer, mainly to keep this one company.” He gave Ophelia a loving nudge with his shoulder.

“Yeah, there’s a kind of twisted poetry to her, and we just can’t seem to tear ourselves away.”

Harry rounded on Ophelia. “And you?”

“Same story, I suppose,” she admitted, “Coming and going. Sirius has lent me Regulus’ old room.”

“So, you’ve known about the Order all summer, then?” he interrogated, anger mounting again.

“ _Mate, she’s in it_ ,” the twins illuminated.

“The Order never would’ve gotten started again, if it weren’t for this spooky character,” Fred boasted, taking hold of her left wrist, “See, she’s _proper_ dodgy now, look—”

“Stop,” she tiredly protested, retracting her arm.

“Ahh, you’re no fun anymore.”

Like most days, she had a strip of black silk wrapped around her forearm; an elegant solution to hide the Mark. But Fred’s meaning had been conveyed.

Harry’s eyes lingered briefly on the bandage before meeting hers again. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, taken aback. “Honestly, Ophelia, that’s horrible. And I’m really sorry it happened to you, because I know you didn’t want it. But you could’ve written, you know. You could’ve told me.”

“ _She’s a bleeding_ spy, _Harry_ ,” the twins chorused.

“Wouldn’t make for a very good one, if she couldn’t keep a secret, would she?” George challenged.

Fred laughed explosively. “And can you imagine what your Muggles would do, if her sod-off massive raven came swooping in on their breakfast?”

“Shouting them to get stuffed—”

“— calling them all sorts of nasty names.”

“That horrible aunt of yours would faint in her tea!”

“Oh, shut up. _You two_ taught him all that rubbish,” she scolded, before turning back to their fuming companion. “I’m sorry, Harry, I really am. But they’re right. Dumbledore—”

Just then, a knock sounded from the door, and Arthur poked his head inside. “We’re going to get started, now, my dear,” he said to Ophelia, “Best make your way down.”

“Alright,” she said, “I’ll be right there.”

Mr. Weasley surveyed the room, giving them all a brisk nod before turning and heading back down the stairs. Fred and George grabbed at her hands as she stood.

“What’s that all about, then?” Harry asked pointedly, refusing to meet her gaze.

“We’ve got a meeting,” she patiently explained, “And please, no eavesdropping this time?” she begged, looking wearily between the twins, “ _Please_? You’re getting me into trouble, because they all think _I’m_ the one telling you things.”

“ _Us_?”

“What a hurtful accusation, Ophelia!” Fred remarked.

“And entirely unfounded!” George added.

“What meeting?” Harry pressed.

She sighed. “Snape and I give regular reports to the Order about—”

“ _Snape_?” he demanded, incredulous, “Is he here?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, still trying to shed the twins, “I expect he just arrived.”

“Git,” Fred snorted, struggling to maintain a hold on Ophelia’s hand.

“He’s on our side now,” Hermione said reprovingly.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t stop him being a git.”

“Bill doesn’t like him, either,” Ginny announced, as though that settled the matter.

“Yeah, you should see the way he looks at _us_ ,” George said, nodding towards his twin. With a pang of guilt, Ophelia realized exactly why Snape looked at them with such malice.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she scolded. She yanked her skirt from George’s grip, finally succeeding in stepping out of reach of the twins. “I have to go, but I will be back in _minutes_. You _will_ survive.”

“I reckon I’m going to throw myself out the window.” Fred lunged for her again, and succeeded in tugging her down into a kiss.

Ron made an animated show of pretending to vomit.

“I really think I ought to Apparate you downstairs!” George announced, leaping to his feet, “You simply _can’t_ be late to your meeting, Ophelia. Strict punctuality is the backbone of any well-run criminal organization.”

She rolled her eyes. “You would do that, for me? I’d just _love_ —”

Before she could finish, he had snatched for her arm, and Apparated to the bottom of the stairs.

“—that! Oh, _dammit_!”

The door to the kitchen was just slightly ajar, and the low chatter of the Order could be heard through the crack.

“Alright, thank you, Georgie,” she said wearily, trying to step away, “You’ve been so very helpful.”

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” He pulled her into a kiss, then, shoving her hard against the wall. His hand slid up her skirt, against her bare thigh. She tried to push him away, but he pinned her wrist to the wall. He found the edge of her underwear, slipping his fingers beneath it. She gasped into his mouth, and then, as quickly as he’d been upon her, he withdrew.

“You are _exhausting_ , do you know that?” she panted, glaring reproachfully at his self-satisfied grin.

He leaned around the corner, nearly shouting towards the kitchen, “Alright, have fun at the meeting, Ophelia! Be sure not to tell us anything about it, after!”

The door suddenly swung open to reveal Snape. His eyes burned with disgust as he stared down his hooked nose at the pair peering around the corner. Mid-laugh, George Disapparated, leaving Ophelia alone.

She tossed her hair back with a jerk of her long neck. Then, in a huff, she pushed past Snape, and into the kitchen. The entire Order was waiting for her, and more than a few of them seemed thoroughly unamused by George’s joke.

“I never tell them anything,” she insisted, taking her seat. “ _Ever_. They eavesdrop, with those ridiculous Extendable Ears they’ve invented.”

“We know they do,” Arthur reassured her, reaching out to pat her hand.

“We don’t know anything of the sort,” Mad-Eye grumbled, “I don’t like this, Arthur.” He gestured between Snape and Ophelia. “ _Either_ of them. But _especially_ her.”

Ophelia was taken aback, gathering her brow in offense.

“Then perhaps you can take that up with Dumbledore,” Snape scowled, “I’m sure he’d enjoy nothing more than to spend yet more of his precious time arguing with you about where my loyalties lie.”

Moody chuckled dryly. “Time well spent, if you ask me. The day he finally—”

“Oh, that’s _enough_!” Remus suddenly snapped, his tone as harsh as Ophelia had ever heard it, “The both of you! We’re here for a reason! Ophelia!”

Despite herself, she started in surprise.

“What do you have for us?”

She took a deep, stilling breath. “No killings. Sirius was right: it’s not that you haven’t heard about them, it’s that they’re not happening. He mustn’t want to—”

“And how would you know that?” Moody immediately argued.

Color rose to her cheeks, but it was not out of shame. “Because my father, aunt, and uncle would be the ones doing the killing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Even Moody couldn’t argue with that.

She looked to Severus, then, yielding the floor to him.

“He has discovered the location of the Prophecy,” he revealed, “But is still no closer to retrieving it. For that, he will surely require—”

“We know what he’ll require,” Sirius interrupted, no lack of bitterness to be heard in his voice.

“Wonderful,” Moody grumbled, moving to stand, “Are we done, here?”

“No,” Ophelia tentatively interrupted, “No, there’s something else.”

Arthur nodded imploringly. “What is it, my dear?”

She glanced briefly at Snape, who seemed to be eyeing her with mild interest. She hadn’t spoken to him about this, yet. She wasn’t sure if he even knew.

“I… I think Bellatrix is trying to conceive a child with the Dark Lord.”

“You _would_ call him that,” Moody snapped.

She’d reached her breaking point. “ _Voldemort_!” she nearly shouted, “Is that better? Voldemort, Voldemort, _Voldemort_!” Her hands were clenched into shaking fists atop the table. “I’m telling you that Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Volde—”

“ _Ophelia_!” Mrs. Weasley scolded, clutching at her chest in shock and offense. “That’s enough!”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Remus spoke up before she could.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, leaning intently across the table.

“I hear her discussing it with Rodolphus,” she revealed, making a concerted effort to calm down, “Apparently it took her a long time to convince the Dark Lord to agree to it, but he finally has.”

The measure of what she’d just told them seemed to settle into everyone, collectively. Brows furrowed, faces fell into hands. Even Moody sank back into his chair, lips pressed together tightly.

“Have they succeeded yet?” Sirius asked.

Ophelia shook her head. “I doubt it.”

Arthur heaved a deep sigh, looking over the faces of his companions. “Alright. What can be done?”

After a long span of silence, Remus bleakly announced, “Nothing. All we can do is wait.”

Sirius stammered. “No, hang on—”

“What do you suggest, then?” Remus argued, “Hmm? This is a plot that will take years, likely decades to come to fruition. And in the meantime, we’ve got a thousand more pressing dilemmas.”

Unsatisfying though the answer may have been, no one could deny: he was right.

“Keep us appraised, will you?” Arthur implored.

Ophelia nodded. “Of course.”


	7. Make No Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, that's right, she's... Uncomfortably wealthy...

Booklists arrived on the very last morning of the summer holiday; far later than normal. Snape had dropped Ophelia’s at Grimmauld Place, and the twins promised to wait to open theirs until she arrived. Most of it proved to be standard fare, aside from one rather odd outlier.

“ _Defensive Magical Theory_?” Ophelia read aloud.

“Yeah, we’ve got that one, too,” Fred noted, skimming his own list.

“Must mean Dumbledore’s found a new Defense Against the Dark Art’s teacher, eh?” George remarked.

Through the floor, they caught a lick of Harry and Ron’s conversation.

Fred grinned wickedly. “Shall we go and wind up the kiddies?”

George and Ophelia answered simultaneously:

“Please, no?”

“Yeah!”

Without further warning, they each took her by the arm and Disapparated. But by that point, she was rather becoming used to it.

Harry grumbled discontentedly, when they materialized behind him.

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,” Fred began conversationally.

“Reckon it means Dumbledore’s found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“And about time too.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the Extendable Ears, a few weeks back,” Fred relayed, “And from what they were saying, Dumbledore was having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this year.”

George chuckled darkly. “Not surprising, is it? I mean, look at what’s happened to the last four.”

“One sacked, one dead, one’s memory removed, and one locked in a trunk for nine months…” Harry counted them off on his fingers. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Still,” Ophelia mused, a little warily, “I don’t know if I care much for a theoretically-focused Defense Against the Dark Arts class.”

George laughed. “As if _you_ need it. Who do you think are you, some kind of fake Death Eater?”

Fred, taking note of the fact that his little brother had been exceptionally quiet for the duration of the conversation, finally asked, “What’s up with you, Ron?”

Ron did not answer. He was standing very still with his mouth slightly open, gaping at his letter.

“What’s the matter?” Fred needled, stepping over to look at the parchment.

Fred’s mouth fell open too.

“Prefect?” he read aloud, staring incredulously at the letter.

“ _Prefect_?” George leapt forward, snatched the envelope away from his younger brother, and dumped it out into his palm. Sure enough, it contained a crimson and gold prefect’s badge. “No bloody way,” he marveled aloud.

“There’s been some sort of a mistake,” Fred insisted, snatching the letter out of Ron’s grasp and holding it up to the light as though checking for some indication of forgery. “No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect.”

Ophelia gaped at them. “You’re such wankers!”

Paying her no mind whatsoever, the twins rounded on Harry.

“We thought you were a sure thing!” Fred remarked, in a tone that suggested Harry was playing some sort of a joke on them.

“Yeah, we thought McGonagall was bound to pick you!” George corroborated.

“Triwizard Champion, and all.”

“I suppose all the mad stuff must’ve counted against him,” George realized.

“Yeah.” Fred thought hard. “Yeah, you’ve caused too much trouble, mate. Well, at least _one_ of you’s got their priorities right.” He clapped Harry on the back, casting Ron a rather scathing look.

“Well, I’m happy for you, Ron,” Ophelia offered, “You’ve earned it.”

Fred mimed an expressive gag.

“What about you?” Harry asked her, “I reckon Snape would have to make you a prefect.”

She shook her head, entirely unperturbed. “Draco and Pansy, if I had to guess.”

Now, it was Harry’s turn to express his disgust.

“I don’t care, Harry,” she said genuinely, “And neither should you.” _Please_ , she silently begged, _just be happy for your friend. You get everything, and Ron gets nothing._

Fred pointed proudly towards his lover. “See? She knows.”

“Oh, Mum’s going to be _revolting_ ,” George groaned, thrusting the prefect badge back at Ron as though he were afraid it may contaminate him.

Ron, who still had not said a word, simply stared at the badge. And then, oddly, offered it out to Harry. When he took it, Ophelia couldn’t help but feel disappointed in them both.

All at once, the door opened with a bang, and Hermione came tearing into the room, cheeks flushed and hair flying. She was clutching her own envelope.

Still panting, she demanded, “Did you—? Did you get—?” Her eyes widened at the sight of the badge in Harry’s hand. “I knew it!” she all but screamed, “Me too, Harry, me too!”

“No,” Harry was quick to correct, shoving the badge back into Ron’s hand. “It’s Ron, not me.”

Her expression wavered, slightly, as she asked, “It— what?”

“Ron’s prefect, not me,” Harry reiterated.

“Ron?” Hermione repeated, “But… are you sure? I mean—”

Ron rounded on her, wearing a defiant expression, and finally found his voice. “It’s my name on the letter.”

“I…” she stammered, “I… Wow!! Well done, Ron! That’s really—”

“Unexpected,” George finished for her.

“No!” she was quick to defend, “No, it’s not! Ron’s done plenty of… He’s really—”

Just then, Mrs. Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile of freshly laundered robes.

“Ginny said the booklists had come at last,” she said, glancing around at all the envelopes, “If you give them to me I’ll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you’re packing. Ron, I’ll have to get you more pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can’t believe how fast you’re growing. What color would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” Fred remarked, smirking.

“Match his what?” said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron’s pile.

“His _badge_ ,” he emphasized, “His lovely shiny new prefect’s badge.”

It seemed to roll over her slowly. “His— Ron, you’re not…?”

Still stunned, Ron brandished the badge.

Mrs. Weasley shrieked. Ophelia was growing rather weary of the shrieking, and hoped distantly that the twins would take initiative and Apparate them back out of here. Alas, they seemed entirely too entertained by the scene to do anything of the sort.

“I don’t believe it!” Molly wailed, “I don’t believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A _prefect_! That’s everyone in the family!”

“Oi!” George remarked, indignant, “What are Fred and I, then, next door neighbors?”

She paid him no mind whatsoever, shoving past the trio to fling her arms around Ron. “Wait until your father hears! Ron, I’m so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up _Head Boy_ just like Bill and Percy, it’s the first step! Oh, what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, I’m just thrilled, oh Ronnie—”

Fred and George both began miming expressive dry-heaves.

“Stop!” Ophelia urged in a whisper, swatting at them anxiously.

“Alright!” Mrs. Weasley announced, opening her hands to the room, “I’m off to Diagon Alley! Let me have those letters!”

Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys all dutifully handed them over.

George nudged at Ophelia. “Do you need her to pick anything up for you, love?”

“No,” she was quick to answer, watching out of the corner of her eye as Mrs. Weasley’s expression changed rather abruptly. It was as though she’d forgotten entirely that Ophelia had existed, for a moment, and was altogether disturbed by the reminder. Ophelia mumbled something inaudible, glancing awkwardly around the room.

“What was that, dear?” Mrs. Weasley pressed, and Ophelia could hear a hint of something like combativeness in her tone.

“I’m alright, Mrs. Weasley,” she reassured her, “But thank you.”

“Are you going to go yourself, then?” she needled, “You know you’ve only got today to—”

“Mum,” George interrupted, suddenly realizing the uncomfortable situation he’d put her in, “Leave it alone.”

Molly scoffed, frustration mounting. “But where will you get your _books_ , Ophelia? Don’t tell me you’ve decided not to return—”

“I get my things delivered to the school,” she finally blurted, and she could feel the heat prickling across her face. “I’m sorry,” she added, self-consciously, “It’s been arranged.”

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley bristled, “How lovely for you.” She steeled herself abruptly, gave Ron another kiss on the cheek, and bustled from the room.

“Sorry, darling,” George whispered genuinely, giving her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

She waved him off, avoiding his gaze.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Fred snapped, “You don’t mind if we don’t kiss you, do you, Ron?”

“We could curtsy, if you like,” George added.

“Yeah, O’s made proper little princes of us.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ron scowled.

“Or what?” Fred goaded, an evil grin spreading across his face. “Going to put us in detention?”

George laughed. “I’d like to see him try!”

“He could if you don’t watch out!” Hermione reminded them, at which Fred and George burst into mocking laughter.

Ron grumbled something indistinct, seeming to shrink back from the group.

“We’re going to have to watch our step, Georgie,” Fred trembled, “Now we’ve got these two on our case.”

“Yeah, it would seem our law-breaking days are finally over,” George conceded, shaking his head bitterly.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why the two of you can’t just—”

Before she could finish, they’d taken her by the arms, and Disapparated.


	8. Funnel of Love

Dinner that night was as cheerful an occasion as anyone could’ve mustered, given the circumstances. Molly had fashioned a crimson and gold banner emblazoned with the words “ _Congratulations Ron and Hermione – New Prefects!”_ and hung it in the kitchen. It would be a proper party, she’d said. And, by all accounts, it was.

Tonks entertained Ginny and Hermione with her Metamorphmagus tricks while Remus and Kingsley debated politics, and Molly fussed over her youngest son. Ron, incidentally, had taken to rattling off the specs of his new Cleansweep to anyone who made the mistake of getting too close. (A present from his parents, in celebration of his prefect appointment.) He had been flashing his badge around endlessly, with a strange air of chagrined, self-aware pride. Only when Fred and George threatened to adhere it to his forehead with a Permanent Sticking Charm did he finally pocket it.

Ophelia chatted with Sirius, mainly, until it became apparent that Harry felt as though she were stealing his attention away. After that, she kept quietly to herself. Near the end of the evening, the twins disappeared around the corner with Mundungus for one cloak-and-dagger thing or another. When they returned, they proudly offered Ophelia a quick glimpse of the Tentacula Seeds he’d sold them before Fred snuck away to stash them in his room.

It was decided that Harry would spend the night at Grimmauld Place, under the guard of Tonks and Sirius. (Safer than moving him around, they concluded.) As had already been so awkwardly established, Ophelia’s things were being packed and delivered for her. And as she had no desire to spend her last night at either Château Lestrange or Malfoy Manor, she would sleep here, as well. Everyone else would go back to the Burrow to spend one last night together before they all caught the train to school in the morning. But, just as Molly began herding her children towards the fireplace, Fred decided to kick the hornet’s nest.

“Oh, yeah— We’re staying, as well,” he announced, his twin nodding in enthusiastic agreement.

They’d mentioned the desire to Ophelia earlier, but she’d put no real stock in it until now.

“You most certainly are _not_!” their mother parried, a tone of finality to her voice. Ophelia took note of the fact that Molly had cast her a distinct and disapproving glance.

“Oh, yes we are,” Fred argued, hands on his hips.

“We’re _of age_ , mum,” George added, almost taunting her.

Fred stood up straighter. “Yeah, we’re men!”

“We can do what we like! We’re men!”

“Not while you’re still in school, living under my roof, you can’t!” She looked to her husband for confirmation.

“They’re of age.” It seemed to be the only thing Arthur had said in weeks.

Mrs. Weasley rounded on Sirius, then, who simply shrugged. “I honestly don’t care, Molly. The more the merrier.”

“It’s our last night of freedom, mum,” Fred pressed.

“Which is precisely why— _Oh_!” She threw her hands up and sighed in frustration. “Fine!” With that, she took her two youngest by the shoulders, and marched them off towards the hearth.

Ron waved goodbye as he stepped into the green flames. “See you later, O!”

Fred and George responded with a loud, “ _NO_!”

After the rest of the family had gone, Mr. Weasley looked sternly between the twins. “What, _precisely_ , are you planning to do here, overnight?” he asked in a low whisper.

Fred just laughed, throwing an arm over Ophelia’s shoulders. “Ah, c’mon, dad. Ask us no questions and we’ll tell you no lies.”

He rubbed wearily at his temples. “I am begging you two, _please_ behave.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” Sirius reassured him, “I’m not afraid to string them up by their toes, if they step out of line.”

“You know I keep them out of trouble, Mr. Weasley,” Ophelia added.

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but thought better of it. He was beginning to think that she _was_ the trouble, after all. With one more tired look between the trio, Arthur reminded them, “We’ll be here at 10:00 to collect you.” And with that, he followed the rest of his family through the fireplace.

The six of them spent a while cleaning up after the party, and talking happily in the kitchen. Ophelia got the sense that Harry was still angry about Ron’s prefect appointment, as he stumbled his way through stilted, after-dinner chit-chat. He wasn’t long for their company, and after he turned in, Tonks and Sirius were quick to follow.

After a short time spent lingering around the kitchen table (a cursory gesture, to be sure), the trio made their way upstairs. They noted that a faint light was shining out from beneath the door to the master suite, but there was no noise from inside. They thought they were in the clear.

Then, without warning, Sirius emerged into the hallway, only to find himself face-to-face with the comically guilty-looking trio. Clearly, trying to sneak into Ophelia’s room together.

Sirius cocked an eyebrow. She cleared her throat, straightening up.

“Alright, then, Ophelia,” George enunciated clearly, giving her a very formal handshake, “You have yourself a pleasant evening, and we shall see you in the morning.”

“George, you idiot,” Fred muttered.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “You two are of age,” he said, “And, the way I see it, Ophelia’s as good as. If you’re old enough to look Voldemort in the eyes and lie for us, you’re old enough to do… Whatever it is you three do.”

The twins grinned broadly, ushering her into the room. “ _Thanks, Sirius_!”

Ophelia craned her neck back to look at her cousin. “Please don’t say anything to their mum?”

He sighed wearily, countering, “Please cast _Muffliato_.”

Fred laughed. “Don’t you worry about that, mate—”

“—we were going to.”

“You know we’ve got to be much more careful at school, from now on,” she heeded, rubbing Fred’s fingers between her own. “Not like last year.”

Fred and George sat propped up against the headboard, their lover laying across their laps. All three were naked, heads still fuzzy with the lingering heat of their entanglement. George was combing his fingers back through her hair, gazing off into space. The window above the bed was propped open, curtains billowing inward on the late summer breeze. It was extremely strange to hear automobile traffic, outside.

“Hey, I mean it,” she nudged.

Fred nodded severely. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”

“Hang on,” George interjected, looking between them, “How do you reckon that?”

She gathered her brow, trying to think of how best to explain it. “Snape didn’t get this far by wearing his loyalty on his sleeve.”

“Snape,” he scoffed, “As if you should ever follow _his_ example.”

“No, she’s got a point,” Fred defended, “We can’t do things like we used to.”

“Not in front of people, anyway. For my safety, as well as yours, it’s got to look like the Malfoys convinced me to keep away from you.”

George shifted uncomfortably, his voice slightly wounded as he asked, “What are we meant to do, then?”

She chuckled, looking up into his hazel eyes. “Sneak around like the beautiful thieves we are.”

It seemed to reassure him a little, and he looked down at her with a half-smile.

“We’ll just hang about in the Room of Requirement,” Fred stated decisively, “It’ll be better in there, anyway; we can be as loud as we like.”

The trio laughed knowingly, sinking a little closer together atop the bed.

“Perhaps you can take to slipping me love notes when we pass each other in the hall,” she teased, “Scraps of poetry.”

Fred groaned in disgust, muffling her face with his hand. She laughed, taking it away and placing it on her chest.

Privately, George thought that would actually be a beautiful idea. He cast her a warm smile. “Yeah, I might do.”

Fred announced, “Alright! If you want us to treat you like a bloody French princess, we will.”

She cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He grinned wickedly. “We’ll marry you off to a 50-year-old man you’ve never met, to improve our alliance with Denmark.”

Ophelia laughed explosively, clutching his hand to her chest, but George was indignant.

“Hey, that’s not funny, Fred, her family’s really trying to do that to her!”

“Yes, but didn’t I tell you?” she giggled, “They’ve moved on from Draco, much to his parents’ dismay. Now they’re got it in their heads that I’m going to marry Augustin Travers.”

George furrowed his brow. “What, that bloke you went to the Ball with?”

“Oh, Georgie,” she giggled, an almost patronizing tone to her voice. She sat up, climbing astride his lap to plant endless kisses back and forth on his cheeks. “I may have arrived with Augustin Travers, but who did I leave with?”

He chuckled gratefully, color rising to his freckled cheeks as he lingered on the memory of that evening. “Oh, go on, then.”

Fred grumbled something indistinct.

“It’s your own fault you weren’t involved!” she scolded lightly, “Winging Bludgers at girls’ faces is no way to let on that you fancy them!”

He rolled his eyes. “As if I fancy _you_.”

“Whatever you say, my darling.” She leaned over to press a kiss to his mouth. “Come on, now, hold me properly. The both of you.”

They indulged her request with no hesitation, taking their places either side of her as they laid back on the bed. They closed their eyes, settling into one another as she combed her fingers through their hair.

“I don’t suppose anything will ever be as good as this, ever again,” she announced oddly.

They each murmured in soft, wordless agreement, their arms crisscrossing over her chest as they held her.

She was right.


	9. Beautiful Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, don't these kids go to school?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a step back, today, and realized how L E N G T H Y this "part 2" is gonna end up, and I wasn't sure how to split up this next section, anyway, so here it is: a super long, weirdly smashed-together section. Welcome to Hogwarts, bitches.
> 
> Also: you may have noticed that, aside from one extreme instance, I'm kind of tiptoeing around the physical aspect of the Spicy Trio's relationship. O's underage, still, so I'm wary to get too explicit. But I promise that things turn up, once she goes 17.

_My dear, there is no danger. Can't you see they turn blind eyes  
To we swift and spotlit strangers? Oh, before the rush is over,  
We will be revered again, while the victims still recover._

_Oh, if we run this light, take a little life, no one will care at all._

_We can burn it and leave, for we are the beautiful thieves  
No one suspects at all._

_Are we running towards death? I have met him times before._  
_He adores us like the rest. Oh, even if we're discovered,_  
_Just be sure to wear your best, we will surely make the covers!_

It was the first week of school when Ophelia found herself in a room she’d never visited before. It was massive and beautifully constructed; about the size of a large cathedral. The high windows were sending shafts of light down through the dust-laden air, golden and glimmering. And it was packed, floor to ceiling, with innumerable strange objects. It looked like a city, with towering walls built of what she knew must be items hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads lined by teetering piles of broken and damaged furniture; stowed away, perhaps, to hide the evidence of misguided magic, or hidden by castle-proud elves.

It was the Room of Requirement, but so unlike it had ever presented itself before. She’d been looking for someplace to store a stack of letters, in case someone went rifling through her things. (No good could possibly come from Katie Rayknollis pouring through all the sweet words she and the twins had spent the summer exchanging.) And when she went looking for a hiding place, this is where she found herself.

There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or vandalized or stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still holding enough life to hover halfheartedly over the mountains of other forbidden items. Chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks. She stumbled upon what looked like dragon eggshells, and corked bottles whose contents still shimmered menacingly. There were weapons of various style and quality jutting dangerously out of the piles; silver blades, and rusted spikes. She even found a heavy, bloodstained axe.

Ophelia strolled idly down one of the many alleyways, amongst all the hidden treasure. She turned right, past an enormous stuffed troll, lingering for a moment to inspect a large cupboard that seemed to have had acid thrown over its cracked and blistered surface. There was a chipped bust of an ugly old wizard balanced on top, beside a tarnished tiara. _What fascinations_ , she thought.

A little further along, she stumbled upon a massive, free-standing cabinet. It had a sinister look about it; constructed of rough, black wood, and inlaid with gold. The door creaked loudly on its rusted hinges when she opened it. She peered inside the cavernous, empty space. It was nearly eight feet tall, and about three feet deep. A strange, rather disconcerting smell seemed to be emanating from within, though she couldn’t pinpoint the source. It was something sickly burnt, like overcooked meat.

“ _Gotcha_!”

A bolt of panic ran up her spine. Someone was trying to shove her inside the cabinet. And while she didn’t know what would happen to her, if she went inside, she knew she didn’t want to find out. She braced her hands hard, either side of the door, trying to push her assailant back, but he proved far stronger than she. In an expert move, she ducked to the side. Swearing, he stumbled in past her, sprawling out on the floor of the cabinet. Without pausing to plan or think, she brought her foot down hard on his chest, drawing the dagger from its sheath on her thigh and swooping in to press it to his throat.

For a moment, the pair lingered in the tense heat of what had just happened. And then Ophelia exhaled in frustration.

“George Weasley, that was perhaps the _stupidest_ thing you’ve ever done!”

He chuckled nervously, raising his hands in surrender. “If that’s true, then why am I hard?”

She rolled her eyes, taking the knife from his throat and tugging him to his feet. “Let me see you,” she commanded, tilting his head back, “You’re lucky my hands don’t shake, or you’d be dead right now.”

“I wouldn’t have shut you in, you know,” he defended, “Just wanted to make your heart race, a little.”

“It still wasn’t very funny.”

Just then, Fred sprang out from around the corner. “ _Gotcha_!”

“No!” George was quick to stop him, “No, that didn’t work out the way we thought, best leave it alone!”

Fred looked dismayed. “Oh, you’re no fun anymore.” He stepped over to wrap his arms around Ophelia’s waist from behind, yanking her hard against his chest. “Ah, you found the Vanishing Cabinet!”

She eyed it suspiciously. “Is that what it is?”

“Yeah,” George confirmed, “It doesn’t work, though, ever since Peeves dropped it on Filch last year.”

“And we dunno where its twin is, anyway.”

She furrowed her brow, looking between them as it dawned on her. “Hang on, yes you do. You’ve seen it.”

They gave her a puzzled look.

“It’s inside Borgin and Burkes. At least I think that’s the twin. It has to be, doesn’t it?”

George swooped in to press his nose against hers. “I think I had better things to do that day than notice some big, dodgy box.”

“Get stuffed,” she giggled, taking his hand and holding him close, “Anyway, what are you two doing in here?”

“ _Looking for you, aren’t we?”_

“When we couldn’t get in the normal room, we knew someone was in the Room of Hidden Things—”

“—And this place must be used to us, by now, ‘cause it let us right in.”

 _Such strange magic_ , she mused. _Like the castle itself is alive._

“Anyway,” Fred pressed, running a covetous hand up her chest, “We can’t very well ravish you in here, can we?”

“Come on, O.” George nosed her chin back, burying his face in her neck. “Let’s go and get a proper room, eh?”

“Yes, alright,” she conceded, letting them lead her away, back through the alley of curious detritus. But her gaze lingered on the cabinet; the door swinging ominously on its rusted hinges.

.

.

.

She returned the following day, without the twins, retracing her steps precisely. When she found the cabinet, she was disturbed to note that the door seemed to have closed and latched entirely on its own. She re-opened it, and knelt on the ground before the cavernous space. She drew a scrap of parchment from her pocket, upon which she’d scrawled the message:

_Hello, Mr. Borgin_

_-Ophelia Lestrange_

With a wave of her wand, the paper folded itself into a neat flower, and she set it down inside the cabinet. Apprehensive, she rose to her feet once more, and closed the door. No sooner had she latched it, then there came a strange rushing sound from inside. Only for a moment, and then a soft _click_.

She wrenched the door open again, and was nearly floored by the smell. Looking down in anticipation, she caught only the briefest glimpse of the last, fading embers licking at the dark wood in what seemed to be a perfect circle. She knelt, running her fingers along the area where she’d placed the parchment, and then held them up to examine them in the golden light of the room.

Ash.

.

.

.

“Tell me again what we’re doing?” Ophelia probed, as Fred tied the blindfold over her eyes.

“We’re playing a _game_ ,” he patiently reiterated.

“You’ll love it,” George added, “It’s got all your favorite things.”

“Oh? And what might those be?” she challenged.

“ _Us_.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at their unyielding confidence. The trio were seated on the cushion-strewn floor of the Room of Requirement. It had produced for them their typical setting: low, warm light, and a comfortable array of overstuffed sofas and armchairs, draped with innumerable blankets and pillows. Incidentally, it was precisely the same as it had been on the day that George first told her that he loved her. A trim little record player sat on the floor beside them. They were listening to some Muggle glam rock band, a contemporary of David Bowie’s. The twins had, like most things, hounded her into liking it.

“Alright,” Fred announced, scooting back around to sit in front of her, “Now you have to guess.”

“Guess what?” she smiled, reaching out blindly towards them.

One of them took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Guess.”

“Mmm,” she pondered for a moment, “George.”

“ _Wrong_!”

“You can’t lie!” she sniped, swatting at them, “It’s no fun if you’re just going to lie!”

“An entirely unfounded accusation, Lestrange,” George remarked smartly.

“It was not,” she confidently refuted.

After a beat, Fred murmured, “Damn, she’s good.”

“You know I can tell your voices apart,” she reminded them.

“What do we do, then?” George whispered.

“I dunno.”

She smiled proudly, shaking her head at the sound of them shuffling positions. She jumped in surprise when a hand brushed against her cheek, combing her hair back. Breathing a soft laugh, she leaned into the touch. And then his lips met hers; sweet and gentle.

When he withdrew, it was with complete certainty that she announced, “That’s Fred. Fred’s a wanker, but he’s the only one who ever kisses me nice like that.”

After a moment of indistinct whispering, she found herself pulled roughly into another kiss. Fevered and passionate, a nearly violent clash of teeth and tongues. It caught her entirely off guard. She moaned intensely, reaching up to touch his face. But he caught her by the wrist.

“Nice try,” he murmured against her lips.

“And that’s George,” she determined.

“ _Wrong_!”

“Pull the other one!” she laughed incredulously, as he slipped from her arms.

“Seems we’ve tricked you,” one of them announced proudly.

The other clucked disapprovingly. “You’ll have to do better than that, Lestrange.”

“Yeah, some spy _you_ are.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you have _any_ idea what spies do, Freddie.”

Again, there came the sound of them shifting positions. One of them had moved behind her, and his hands slid possessively up her stomach, coming to rest on her breasts. He pressed his lips to her ear, as his brother began trailing kisses up her throat.

“Mmm,” she laughed softly, turning to nudge her nose against the one kissing her ear, “This is Georgie.”

“Oh, damn,” he whispered, and she could hear a smile on his voice.

Simultaneously, they began to unbutton her shirt, slipping the tie from her neck. In the flurry of hands, she began to lose track of who was who. Fingertips traced along her bare breasts, taking the occasional, covetous handful. They laid her down on her back, and before she could anticipate what was about to happen, they each took one of her nipples in their mouths.

She gasped, back arching reflexively. Her hands slid up the backs of their necks, taking gentle fistfuls of their hair.

“I can’t even begin to guess,” she panted.

“ _Then don’t_.”

.

.

.

_No good can come of a direct link between Hogwarts, and Borgin and Burkes._

The thought was stuck in her head, on an endless loop.

 _No good can come of a direct link between Hogwarts, and Borgin and_ _Burkes._

It lingered in the back of her mind, no matter what she was doing.

_No good can come of a direct link between Hogwarts and Borgin and Burkes._

It kept her awake at night. It distracted her studies.

_No good can come of a direct link between Hogwarts and Borgin and Burkes._

And so it was that Ophelia Lestrange made the conscious decision to break the Vanishing Cabinet.

Every free moment she had, she was in the Room of Hidden Things. Her methods were brutal and fumbling, at first. She tried setting it on fire, both with magic, and with a box of Muggle matches she’d stolen from Fred. But it seemed impervious to flame. She tried hacking it to pieces, using a variety of weapons she’d gathered from around the room. But either she hadn’t the strength, or else no one did.

After a while, she resorted to magic. The _Confundus_ charm became her prayer. _Baubillious, Reducto, Confringo, Expulso, Bombarda Maxima,_ she did them all. Over and over and over, every night, until her voice went raw. Some nights, she would fall asleep in that room, only to wake up in the ominous shadow of that cursed object and keep casting.

It was her secret ritual; her solitary, Quixotic crusade.

No matter what she did, there was no change in the cabinet’s outward appearance. She could only hope that she was dealing some sort of damage to it. Keep working. Keep reading, keep trying new spells. And hope.


	10. Torch Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OOOHHH, they did the thing!!! The thing everyone likes!!!

It was a rainy night, but a fire was crackling merrily in the nearly-empty Gryffindor Common Room. The Quidditch team sat huddled around it, happy to be warm and dry again, after a particularly cold and exhausting practice.

It had been raining heavily for days. To the twins’ great dismay, Ophelia seemed to love it. The prior night, she’d actually dragged them out into the freezing rain and danced around like a complete lunatic while the storm raged overhead. Because they loved her, they stayed.

But tonight, they were guiltily grateful to be inside, by a fire. Angelina had intended to flog them all through the final details of their strategy before tomorrow’s match against Hufflepuff, but her plan wound up quickly and utterly derailed. Lee Jordan arrived with a bottle of sherry he’d talked the House Elves into giving him, and that was the end of that.

What began as drinking eventually devolved into a game of Truth or Dare, during which _everyone_ (rather uncharacteristically, for a bunch of dyed-in-the wool Gryffindors) kept choosing Truth. Fred grilled Angelina over the rumors of her sabotaging the Slytherin Quidditch team and she, in turn, got Lee to admit that he fancied Padma Patil. Lee then demanded that Harry make a definitive, comparative appraisal between Cho and Ginny; a thread of discussion that Ron, Fred, and George quickly put a stop to.

It wasn’t until Alicia rounded on George that things got truly interesting.

“You!” she thrust an accusatory finger towards him, “How is it you’ve made it this far unscathed? Truth or dare!”

He straightened up, unafraid. “Dare. Because I’m not a _girl_.”

“Dare you to kiss Katie,” she responded instantly.

“What?” Katie giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth. But there was something odd about the way she was behaving; like she’d known this was coming. Almost like she’d orchestrated this. _But that couldn’t be_ , he thought madly, _could it?_

George held the confident smile on his face, but inside, his stomach twisted. He wasn’t the type to shy away from a dare, ordinarily, and so he wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation that was surely about to ensue. _But one has to stick to one’s principle_ s, he told himself.

“Er… Pass,” he said quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.

The shrieks of protest and disbelief were instantaneous, and deafening.

“ _You absolute wanker_!”

“ _So much for not being a girl_!”

“ _Who are you, and what have you done with George Weasley_?”

Katie, for her part, looked very suddenly on the verge of furious tears.

“It’s not you,” he defended feebly, “Honestly! It’s just—” He caught sight of Ron’s eyebrows shooting upwards, and immediately silenced.

“I know what your problem is,” Alicia spat, “You’re still hung up on the Heiress of Slytherin, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“Liar!” Angelina snapped, “Everyone knows she broke your heart!”

“No!” George’s face was beginning to redden.

“New game!” Lee quickly announced, as George swiped the bottle of sherry from Ron and took a deep pull. “Never have I ever spent the night in Ophelia-the-Strangest’s Chamber of Secrets!”

George nearly choked, spitting his drink all over his already-irate friends. “Go to hell!” he coughed, but Lee just laughed. _The wanker_ , he thought furiously, _he knows full well what’s going on, he’s meant to be helping us keep the damn secret!_

Katie looked on the verge of spontaneous combustion as she demanded, “If it’s not _her_ , then what is it? _Me_?”

Fred couldn’t watch his brother make a mess of things for one more second. So, long overdue, he finally came to the rescue. He threw an arm across George’s shoulders, tugging him close. Poor George nearly spilled the sherry across their laps.

“It’s because _we’re_ in love!” Fred announced theatrically, “That’s right, the rumors have been true, all along!” And, without further warning, he took his twin’s face in his hands and kissed him hard on the mouth.

It was a rogue move, even for Fred. George, utterly blindsided, but thankful for the rescue, played along.

“Oh, my _darling_ ,” he tittered, swooning over in Fred’s lap, “I’m ever so _thrilled_ we’ve finally decided to announce it!”

“I know, handsome,” Fred crooned in reply, patting him on the cheek.

Everyone laughed at their little performance. Everyone, that is, but Katie and Alicia.

That night, just as soon as he was confident that Lee and Kenneth were asleep, George slipped from his fourposter bed and stumbled over to Fred’s. He was, admittedly, still a bit drunk.

“Fred!” he whispered harshly, yanking the curtains back so hard it was a wonder they didn’t tear.

“What?”

Of course, he was still awake. If George couldn’t sleep, neither could he. It had been that way all their lives.

“Can I come over?”

“You’re already _over_ , you prat,” he chuckled softly.

“What?”

Fred sighed, rolling over to face him. “Get in, Georgie.”

George flopped down beside his brother, settling in to stare up at the canopy. The room was tilting back and forth. Perhaps he was more than a little drunk.

“What’s up?” Fred prodded, reaching across his brother to pull the curtains closed again.

“That was all a bit fucked, wasn’t it?” he murmured.

Fred smiled faintly, though George couldn’t see it in the dark. “Yeah, I saved your skin, though, didn’t I?”

“I reckon Katie fancies me like mad.”

“That’s too bad for her, then.”

George frowned. “I feel sort of guilty, though. I don’t want her to think that she’s not nice, or pretty, or whatever it is that’s supposed to matter, it’s just… I dunno. We’re in _love_.”

Fred laughed softly. “Yeah, I reckon we are.”

“And Katie… She’s fine, and all, but she’s just not…”

“She’s not our O, is she?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “But I feel bad that I can’t explain it to her. Explain why.”

Fred shrugged. “You shouldn’t ever have to justify saying ‘no’ to something, I reckon.”

George looked unconvinced, settling in a little closer to his big brother.

“Loving our girl’s like loving the dead, isn’t it?” Fred chuckled.

George seemed uncharacteristically unmoved by the joke.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, mate,” Fred reassured him, “Katie’ll find someone else to chase after, and forget all about you. Either way, it’s not on your head.”

George murmured something soft and indistinct.

“Come again?”

“I said I wanna see Ophelia,” he repeated, much louder.

“Shh!” Fred glanced at his watch on the nightstand. “It’s only half two, she’s probably still mucking about somewhere she shouldn’t be.”

“Let’s go and find her, then,” George announced, flinging the curtains back again and stumbling to his feet.

“Hey, you’re wankered,” Fred reminded him, giving quick chase as he made for the door. “Take it easy.”

To his surprise, George didn’t head down the stairs towards the Common Room, but rather took a hard right and soldiered right into the 5th Year dormitory.

“Oi!” he whispered, perhaps more loudly than was appropriate, “Harry!”

He grumbled sleepily, rolling over.

“What do you two want?” Ron groaned, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

“Gonna steal your prefect badge,” Fred snapped, “Nose out.”

George paid him no mind. “Where’s he keep that bloody map?”

“In his trunk, under the bed,” Ron told them, and George set about finding it.

“We’re not stealing it,” he justified, though nobody had asked him to, “Just need to look at it for one… Second...” He finally produced the worn parchment from the depths of Harry’s trunk, and gave it a quick tap with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good.”

Fred held his illuminated wand over his brother’s shoulder as the map materialized.

George furrowed his brow, scanning across the parchment, looking over all the places she could normally be found, at this time of night. Her bed, the Slytherin Common Room, Snape’s office, Dumbledore’s office. “She’s not _anywhere_!”

“That means she’s in the Room,” Fred reminded him.

“Oh, yeah,” George shook his head, tapping the map with his wand again, “Mischief managed.” He shoved it haphazardly back into Harry’s trunk.

“Probably a smart move, not snogging Katie, back there,” Ron yawned, laying back down, “I reckon O would’ve carved your heart out and carried it around in her pocket, for that one.”

“ _Don’t call her that_ ,” the twins sniped in unison, heading for the door again.

A few minutes later, they skidded to a halt in the 7th floor corridor, and watched as the door materialized before them. Fred had followed frantically behind his twin, who seemed singularly hell-bent on finding their lover tonight. They were still clad in their pajamas.

As soon as the door appeared, George charged inside. It wasn’t the normal room, but rather the Room of Hidden Things. Again. Fred, for his part, had the strangest feeling that he knew precisely where she was, in here. But he kept the thought to himself, continuing to follow along behind his twin.

“Ophelia!” George shouted, wandering aimlessly here and there.

“What?” they heard her call back, followed by the rapid clicking of her heels, drawing nearer and nearer.

When she finally popped out from behind a tower of derelict furniture, Fred shook his head in exasperated disbelief. She was wearing some kind of outrageous dressing gown, with lace and feathers and the whole lot. Such rich-girl nightclothes.

“What are you doing in here, my darlings?” she asked gently, “It’s the middle of the night!”

“Never mind that,” Fred said, “What are _you_ doing in here?”

George all but threw himself on her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Crushing her. Her back cracked. He was mumbling something, but it was muffled into her neck.

“What’s that, love?” she asked, lifting his face up.

“I didn’t snog Katie Bell!” he nearly shouted, extremely close to her face.

She blinked in surprise, a slight smile lifting at the corner of her lips. “Are you drunk, Georgie?”

Fred rolled his eyes, falling into a shredded armchair that sat nearby. “Yeah, he’s drunk.”

She giggled softly. “And what’s all this about Katie Bell?”

George fell back into her, but thankfully, Fred was prepared with an answer. “Angelina dared him to kiss Katie, but he didn’t do it, and now Katie’s well cross with him. I dunno what all the fuss is about.”

“Katie Bell wouldn’t lie to You-Know-Who for me,” George announced, somewhat disjointedly.

“Oh, Georgie,” she chuckled, patting him on the back, “You’ve just been in the wars tonight, haven’t you, darling?”

“A few wars,” he mumbled, swaying slightly as they stood amidst the clutter. He could tell she was patronizing him, but somehow, he didn’t mind it so much.

“Come on,” she coaxed, “Why don’t we pop back out and get a better room, and then I’ll hold you till the sun comes up, alright? You can kiss me all you want.”

He exhaled wearily, seeming to finally have hit a wall. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

“Come on, then,” Fred chuckled, taking him by the sleeve and dragging him towards the door, “Let’s go, you great mess.”

George clung to Ophelia’s hand as they stepped back out into the hallway, patiently waiting for the door to disappear and re-appear. After a moment of deliberation, he reached out and took hold of his brother’s, as well. Fred laughed, and rolled his eyes, but gave into it. When they re-entered the room, they found a space not unlike the Gryffindor Common Room. It was even complete with a fireplace. The only marked difference was the massive bed, right in the middle.

George flopped down on the mattress, but Ophelia sat him up again.

“Come on, darling, let’s take this off,” she coaxed, working through the buttons on his shirt and slipping it from his shoulders. “You always get so tangled up, in your sleep.”

Fred followed suit, tossing his shirt away.

“You’re beautiful,” George breathed, transfixed by those purple eyes, so close to his.

She planted a kiss on the tip of his nose. “No, _you’re_ beautiful.”

That seemed to please him, and he giggled.

Ophelia and Fred laid George down between them, exchanging tiredly amused glances as they did.

“I love you,” he murmured, “Both of you.”

Fred mimed an expressive gag, earning himself a sloppy punch in the arm from his brother.

“We know you do, darling,” Ophelia chuckled, shedding her outrageous dressing gown to reveal the thrilling undergarments beneath, “And we love you too.”

“Bloody hell, are you trying to give me a heart attack, Ophelia?” Fred remarked, looking her up and down.

“Always,” she chuckled, resting her head on George’s shoulder and stretching out on the bed.

“He bloody kissed me!” he suddenly blurted, pointing very generally in Fred’s direction.

Ophelia laughed. “What?”

“It was a one-off, mate,” Fred chuckled, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Do I dare ask?” she said, looking between them.

Fred shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”

“Now _you_ kiss me!” George commanded, tugging at her long hair.

She rolled her eyes, but indulged him nonetheless, laying her lips gently against his, over and over again. His reactions were slow and delayed, but he enjoyed it all the same.

All at once, he exhaled wearily, seeming to have been aged by the evening’s events. “M’gonna sleep, then, I reckon.”

“Alright, my darling,” she murmured, combing her fingers through his hair, “You sleep. You’ve got Quidditch in the morning.”

“No,” he breathed, rather nonsensically, “Nah.”

He settled in against her, dragging Fred along by the hand. Within moments, his eyes were closed, and his breathing turned slow and deep.

“What was all that about, then?” Ophelia whispered, casting Fred a bemused look.

He sighed deeply, extricating his hand from George’s grip. “I dunno. I mean… I sort of know, I guess.”

“What, then?”

He hesitated for a moment. “It’s just hard, for him. For both of us, I ‘spose.”

She nodded, measuring her response carefully. What he meant was, _you’re hard to love_. And she knew that was true. She also knew she couldn’t do much to change it. And that hurt.

“I know it’s hard,” she finally said, “And I’m sorry. It’s not like it’s easy for me, either, you know.”

“I know,” he conceded, “I reckon it’s harder for you than it is us, but—”

“No,” she interrupted gently, reaching across George’s sleeping form to touch his face, “Don’t try and compare it, my darling.”

“Just wish we didn’t have to sneak around and hide, is all,” he said, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Don’t get me wrong, there’s no one who loves sneaking around and hiding more than the likes of us, so you’re barking up the right tree. It’s just a bit exhausting, after a while.”

“It’ll end, someday,” she reassured him, “When the fighting’s done, we’ll all settle down in that little flat, above your shop. Build a nice life, together.”

Fred closed his eyes, the thought bringing a hard-won smile to his face. “Yeah, that’ll be brilliant.”

“You and Georgie can make all of your beautiful, mad things,” she continued, “I’ll find something useful to do with myself. Useful and _legal_.”

“You’ll have your hands full, chasing after the kids, I reckon,” he teased.

She laughed, so loudly that George stirred between them. “Not on your _life_ , Fred Weasley!”

Fred all but launched himself across the bed towards her, and pressed a desperate finger to her lips. “Keep it down!” he giggled, “The last thing we need right now is this handsome, ginger problem waking back up.”

She shook her head, laughing. “He’s so _drunk_ , Freddie, why’d you let him get so drunk?”

He shrugged tiredly. “I dunno, Ophelia. You’re the only one who’s got any control over him.”

“I’d imagine I’m the only one who’s got any control over either of you.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence, listening to the fire crackle across the room. Ophelia put her hand on George’s chest, so she could feel the rise and fall. Fred reached over and clasped it, and that made her smile.

“Is he alright, Fred?” she whispered, “Truly?”

After a pause, he finally answered. “I dunno, love.”

She squeezed his hand. “Are you?”

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Things don’t ever bother me like they bother him.”

“I know,” she conceded, “But that’s not what I asked.”

“What about you?” he deflected, “Are _you_ alright?”

“No,” she reluctantly admitted.

“Why?” It was a naive question, he knew that. But he wanted her to know she could talk about it. If she needed to. Not just with George, but with him, too.

She thought hard before answering. What could she say? How could she possibly make him understand, without worrying him? Without him finding something to feel guilty about?

“I dream about him,” she finally whispered, “About Voldemort. I hear his voice in my head, and he just flips through my thoughts like he’s reading a book. It’s been happening for a while now, and I think… I think he’s using Legilimency on me.”

“But… But you’re an Occlumens, right?” he asked, searching for some handle on the moment, something upon which to ground and reassure himself. “I reckon that’s what Snape’s been teaching you. You’ve never said, but that’s it, isn’t it?”

She nodded, unsurprised that he’d figured it out. Just because she didn’t talk about it didn’t mean they hadn’t been paying attention. “That’s right. I’m an Occlumens. But with him, with the Dark Lord… I don’t know if it matters.”

He was baffled. “The fact that you can call yourself an Occlumens at age bloody sixteen, Ophelia…”

“It doesn’t matter,” she swiftly negated, “I’m _scared_ , Fred, I’m so scared, all the time. Scared for you, and… I suppose for myself, as well, and I _hate_ that. I _hate_ that I’m scared for myself. It feels selfish.”

“Well, you’ve come by it honestly,” he reassured her, “Anyone would be scared, doing what you’re doing.”

She nodded slowly, gazing off at nothing in particular. “I suppose. I just wonder sometimes at what I’ve gotten myself into. And then I start to wish I could just run away from it. Pack a bag, and run off with the two of you, and never ever come back, but then I actually _see_ you, and I remember… Remember what I’m doing it for…” she sighed deeply.

The question that sprang to his mind, then, scared him. But he knew that had no choice but to voice it aloud. “Does he know about us?” he asked, and she could hear the guarded panic in his voice, “You-Know-Who, does he… Does he know our names? Has he seen…?”

She turned away, and he watched her face flicker with something like hurt, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “Ask me again, some other time,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “For now, just trust me. Please.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a kind of stunned expression on his face, “Yeah, alright.”

Ophelia heaved a deep sigh. “You know, I suppose it’s all _your_ fault I’m so miserable these days.”

“What?” he cautiously chuckled, “How do you reckon that?”

“I never had friends, before, and so I never minded being alone. But now…” She cast him a sad smile. “If it weren’t for you, my darling, there never would’ve been an empty space in me, nor the need to fill it.”

For a moment, Fred just looked at her. Watched the sadness and worry flicker in her eyes, unfettered, before she tamped it back down again.

After a beat, she looked away, murmuring a soft, “Thank you.”

“Eh? What for?"

She shrugged.

He studied her face intently, and all at once, something awakened to her inside of him. Not love; he’d loved her for a long time, now. Something perhaps more tender, or sad. Like warmth and fear and some sort of protective thing, all wrapped up into one. Beyond love. Beyond awe. Something he didn’t have a name for.

Fred reached across his sleeping brother to run a finger up her cheek, and she leaned into it gratefully, and then it was a moment too long before he was kissing her. Laying his lips so sweetly against hers, like he was afraid she would break. He felt her make some soft sound against him, and he craved her need and her guarded fragility, and the way her fingers combed back through his almost-long-again hair. Wanting him. Protecting him, like he hoped he could protect her.

Not love, he thought. Something beyond that.

The following morning, just as Ophelia was beginning to stir, she heard a pained moan.

“ _Ugh_. Where are we?”

She opened her eyes to see a very confused, very ill-seeming George, squinting around in the low light. Fred’s arm was draped over him from behind, his hand still clasping Ophelia’s from the night prior.

George noticed, and shoved his brother away. “Ew!”

“We’re in the Room, my darling,” Ophelia explained sleepily, “Remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” he realized, rubbing his eyes and looking around. And then, his tone darkened. “Oh. _Yeah_. Sorry about that.”

Ophelia couldn’t help but chuckle, taking him by the wrist and draping his arm over her. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. You’re such an endearingly sweet drunk.” She wound her legs through his, leaning their foreheads together. It was so comfortably warm.

Just then, Fred popped up behind his twin. “You ready to play some Quidditch, Georgie?” he asked brightly.

“Get fucked,” he grumbled, scooting down to bury his face in Ophelia’s chest, “Feels like an Erumpent sat on my head.”

“Serves you right, you bloody lightweight,” Fred laughed, crawling straight over top of the pair. They grumbled in pain and protest at the sharp tangle of knees and elbows. Classic Fred.

“Are you gonna come watch the match?” he yawned, settling in against Ophelia’s back.

“Of course, I am. I always do.”

“I’m gonna smack Bludgers right at your face, the whole time,” he giggled, “So you know I fancy you.”

“Try it, and I’ll turn your club into a banana.”

He gasped. “You would _never_!”

She craned her neck to look back at him. “Give it a go, then! See what happens!”

George finally cracked a smile. “Cheer for us, or I’ll throw myself from my broom.”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You know I can’t do that, my love.”

“Yeah, never mind,” Fred announced, grabbing her by the hip and grinding his astoundingly hard length against her, “You’ll be screaming our names afterwards, anyway.”

George laughed.

“Mmm,” she chuckled, pressing back into him. “And before, if you keep that up.”


	11. Everybody Wants to Change the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all knew it was coming.

The next time the trio found themselves together in the Room of Requirement, the circumstances were much different. Harry, by some misguided notion, was apparently intending to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts himself. In theory, not a bad idea at all. To describe Dolores Umbridge as _horrible_ could hardly be adequate, Ophelia had surmised, though she’d been very careful to stay in her good graces thus far. And, on top of it all, the Ministry seemed hell-bent on denying the Dark Lord’s return. But ignorance and denial would do nothing whatsoever to stop him. For that, they needed skilled witches and wizards who knew what they were up against. And Harry understood that better than anyone.

Yes, a wonderful idea, in theory. But in practice? The twins told him he’d need all the help he could get. And so, after a few days of endless needling, the likes of which only Fred and George were capable of, they finally wore him down.

When they stepped into the Room of Requirement, the first thing Ophelia noticed was Neville Longbottom’s face. For her, it was like all the air had been sucked from the room. Her chest felt hollow and empty. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. And all she could see were his widening eyes, as the terror and realization spread across his face. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny immediately folded in around him, and everyone began talking at once.

“What’s she doing here?” Neville demanded shakily, brandishing his wand towards Ophelia.

Fred and George took a few quick steps away from her, hands raised in surrender. “ _Easy, there, Longbottom!”_

“You’re just as likely to blow yourself up, mate, don’t be stupid!”

“N-no, I mean it!” he persisted, his voice finding some strength, “What are you thinking, bringing _her_ in here?”

“It’s alright, Neville,” Harry tried to placate, stepping between them, “She’s a friend.”

“That can’t be true!” He shook his head in complete denial.

“She’s in the Order,” Ginny told him, gently lowering his wand, “She’s been spying on the Death Eaters for us.”

“Yeah, and you’ll never manage to pull this off without her,” Fred snapped, “So I’d cool your boots.”

Neville was still shaking his head, maintaining a white-knuckle grip on his lowered wand. “No, I don’t believe it.”

Ron cautioned, “I really wouldn’t try to hex her, if I were you, mate. That’s not gonna end well.”

“You’re not friends with her,” Neville insisted, looking between his companions, “Not _her_.”

“It’s mainly those two,” Hermione pointedly justified, gesturing between the twins, “But… Yes. She’s with us.”

Fred and George took up their places beside her once more. George noticed her facial expression, and gently slipped his hand into hers. “Maybe we ought to let O get a word in.”

She was still dumbfounded, just blinking across the room at the group.

“Ophelia,” Fred nudged her with his elbow.

She jumped at his touch, making some small sound of surprise. _Dumbledore’s Army, that’s what you’re here to talk about. Worry about Longbottom later._

“Right,” she stammered, “This is a stupid idea, I think. Well, not stupid, but you’re being stupid about it.”

After a beat of silence, a frowning Harry replied, “Alright. Er… Thank you for that, Ophelia. That’s loads of help.”

“Yeah,” Ron snapped, “What’ve you lot turned her into? She used to be alright!”

She shook her head, trying to focus on something other than Neville’s eyes. “No, I mean… You’re asking to be expelled, with this. When Umbridge finds out—”

“What about you, then?” Ron challenged, “What if the Death Eaters ever found out?”

“That’s different,” she justified weakly, “It’s—”

“What,” Hermione interrupted, “More important?”

“No.” Ophelia furrowed her brow, taken aback by the bold assumption. “It’s the only choice I have, anymore.” She raised her left arm, and though the Mark was covered by the sleeve of her uniform, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny understood.

“But this is the only choice _we_ have,” Harry insisted, “So are you going to help, or not?”

She sighed. “Of course, I’m going to help.”

“How?” he asked, “What do you need from us?”

“Above all, I need you to be careful,” she commanded. “Don’t ever write anything down, don’t keep a hard list of members, don’t keep a paper schedule, nothing that can be stolen.”

Everyone listened with rapt attention as she gave instructions.

“But remember, there are plenty of ways to steal information from your mind. This is basic tradecraft, here, but when you’re with Umbridge, assume that everything she gives you to consume contains Veritaserum. Every single thing. Tea, biscuits, water, milk, the whole lot. Even the sugar. It’s something I have to do in my own home, and you’ll all need to start, as well.”

Hermione protested. “But that’s illegal! To use Veritaserum on a student—”

“ _Do you really think that’ll stop her_?” the twins interrupted.

Harry nodded. “Don’t eat or drink anything from Umbridge. What else?”

Ophelia continued, “Take a different path through the castle, every time you come here. If you spot someone following you, don’t look at them, and don’t confront them. Act normal, and go into a bathroom, or back to your Common Room, and wait. Being on time isn’t worth the risk of the group’s exposure. And then, either check the Map, or cast _Homenum Revelio_ before you start moving again. Nonverbally, if you can.”

“I can’t do that,” Ron grumbled indignantly.

“Good, then Harry will have something to teach you,” she parried, “You’ll all need to stagger your arrivals to this room, and please, all of you, stagger your exits. And be very, very careful who you’re seen with, outside of your meetings. If it’s a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw you would otherwise have no reason to interact with, then don’t let yourself be seen with them.”

She felt George step a little closer to her, squeezing her hand. “Yeah,” he confirmed, a touch of sadness in his voice, “That’s a big one, I reckon.”

Neville’s brow had been knitting together tighter and tighter with each word she spoke, but now, it looked as though something had finally dawned on him.

“When this is discovered, and it will be discovered, I will provide as much distraction and misdirection for you as possible,” Ophelia continued, “I’ve been exceedingly careful to stay in Umbridge’s good graces, and I think I’ll be able to stretch that for a while. But even that won’t last forever. You need to vet your people, and make sure they understand what’s at stake. Both if they do this, and if they don’t.”

“I hope you lot are taking notes,” Fred sniped.

“Yeah, this is the real article we’ve brought you, here.”  
“Your lives already depend on how good she is at this sort of stuff—”

“—and as you may have noticed, you’re still alive.”

“No.” It was Neville, eyes darting around in uncertainty. “S-she said not to write anything down.”

For the first time, she looked at him. Really, really looked at him. And, disarming though it was, he did not look away.

Fred cleared his throat loudly. “Alright, everyone!” he announced, “Back to your knitting!”

“Yeah, this is gonna be awkward enough without all you nosy sods listening in,” George added, beginning to shoo the rest of the kids from the room.

“And _you_ —” Fred took Ron roughly by the shoulder and dragged him towards the door, “We’re gonna have a little chat about the increase in prefect oversight, around here…”

The door to the Room of Requirement closed with a resounding _boom_ , and with that, Ophelia Lestrange and Neville Longbottom were alone.

“I’m going to h-hold onto this for a while,” he announced, lifting his wand weakly.

Completely justified, on his part, she thought. He couldn’t be faulted for his caution.

She stammered for a moment, searching for somewhere to begin. “Neville, I—”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand, pressing his eyes shut. “Just d-don’t. I know what you’re going to say, and you’re right: you’re not your parents, and I’m… I’m not mine. If Harry says you’re alright, then... I suppose that’ll have to be good enough for me.”

“I really am a spy,” she desperately offered, and in a moment of temporary insanity, she began pulling up the left sleeve of her uniform.

He was horrified. “What are you doing? Stop that! I don’t want to _see_ it!”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, tugging her sleeve back down, “You’re right, I’m sorry.” _Stupid, Ophelia. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled, bringing a hand to his forehead.

Ophelia took a deep, stilling breath. “I’ll do right by you, I promise,” she said softly, “Just give me the chance.”

After a pause, he muttered, “It’s not up to me. Harry—”

“It is, though,” she implored, taking a step towards him. It made her stomach turn, the way he stepped back. “It can be up to you. If you say you don’t want me around, then I’ll—”

“No,” he interrupted. And then, completely unexpectedly, he seemed to soften. “Just… Tell me one thing.”

“Anything,” she nearly begged, “Anything at all.”

“You’re in this to destroy your own family?”

“Yes,” she exhaled, eyes falling closed. “I’ll burn the tree to ash, if that’s what it takes. Myself along with it.”

He nodded, thinking hard. “Why should I believe that?”

“Because, if I’d wanted to hurt you, Neville, I’ve…” she hesitated, wondering if this was, in fact, the best tactic. But before she could stop herself, the words came pouring out of her mouth. “I’ve had five years to do it. And in all these years, I’ve… I’ve never so much as _looked_ at you. I’m…” Her voice began to break, but she soldiered through. “Neville, I’m _frightened_ of you. Because I know you have every reason in this world to hate me. But I’m here, now. Unarmed. Asking you to let me help win this war.”

It was a long time before he spoke. But, finally, he replied. “Alright. I’ll take that.”

Relief washed over her in an absolving wave. “Thank you.” With a rush of boldness, she offered a hand out to him.

He inspected it as though she’d just thrust a venomous snake towards him, taking another half-step back. She almost withdrew. But to her shock, he pocketed his wand, and took her hand in his.

“Nice to meet you, Ophelia Lestrange.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “The pleasure is all mine.”

He didn’t quite smile back, not yet. She supposed it would be a while before he’d be happy to see her. But it was a good start. She’d take it. Together, they turned, and made for the door,

And then, oddly, Neville asked, “So… You and George, you never…? I dunno, _broke up_? After last year?”

Ophelia grinned broadly. “Not for an instant.”


	12. Blood Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two smaller sections combined into one, for the sake of the chapter count.

_Common Room fireplace. Midnight._

_ Alone. _

The distinctive handwriting of Rabastan Lestrange.

She followed his instruction precisely, taking up her silent vigil around 11:45. She stretched out on the couch opposite the fireplace, wrapped in her opulent dressing gown. No book, nothing to distract her. She just watched the flames, and waited. After about ten minutes, a pair of 4th Years came creeping down from the dormitories. Holding hands, whispering. Giggling. They didn’t notice her until she announced herself.

“No,” she said sternly, pointing back towards the stairs.

They jumped, the boy taking a protective step in front of his girlfriend.

“Turn around,” Ophelia commanded, “And get out. Right now.”

“You’re not a prefect, Lestrange,” the boy argued.

“She’s a _Death Eater_ ,” the girl whispered to him, trying to drag him backwards, “Let’s just go.”

Ophelia had heard enough. With a quick wave of her wand, she sent a shower of sparks skipping across the stone floor at their feet. At that, they finally scurried away.

“ _Ophélie_ ,” a familiar voice sounded from the hearth, “ _Je vois que tu te conduis mal._ ”

She whipped around to see her father’s face protruding from the now-green flames. He was smiling at her.

She had to work through it, piece by piece. _Je vois._ I see. _Conduis_ , conduct. _Mal_ …

“ _Toujours et pour toujours_ ,” she cautiously offered.

This seemed to please him, and he laughed genuinely. “That’s my girl.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, “What ‘s going on?”

“Can’t a father check in on his daughter, every once in a while?” he countered, seemingly perturbed by the question.

“I don’t know,” she bristled, “This is my first experience with it.”

 _Fuck, what are you doing?_ she scolded herself, _you’re going to make him angry!_

“ _Éteindre votre feu_ ,” he scolded, and she had to wrack her brain to decipher what he was saying, “I’m not the Malfoy brat.”

 _Étiendre_ she didn’t recognize. But _votre feu_ … Your fire.

“ _Désole, mon père_ ,” she replied, bowing her head.

“Alright,” he acknowledged curtly, “So. Your uncle Corban tells me you’ve been appointed to an auxiliary position with the Ministry.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “It’s nothing as important as all that,” she dismissed, “They just need more prefects this year, to keep the Gryffindors in line. They’re calling us the Inquisitorial Squad.”

He laughed genuinely. “Well, that sounds like a good bit of fun!”

“All we do is take points away for the violation of those idiotic Educational Decrees.”

“Let the Ministry go about their security theater,” he reassured her, “It’s better for us if they go on thinking they’re in control for a while.”

She shrugged. “It’s all because of the Potter brat. He’s decided he’s going to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in secret.”

Rabastan cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, has he?”

“Yes,” she nodded casually, “There’s no point in trying to put a stop to it; I think he’s doing more damage to the students here than good. Besides, it’s keeping both him and the Ministry off our backs, while they chase each other around in these pointless circles. Let him build up a false sense of security, I say. It will make his annihilation all the sweeter.”

Ophelia felt as though she were about to vomit. And that’s how she knew she’d said the right thing.

A kind of happy, wistful expression had crossed her father’s face, then.

She furrowed her brow. “What?”

He exhaled sharply, eyes traveling across her features, and then he turned his gaze upward. “Are you hearing this, Ella?” he smiled, “She may have my face, but the rest of this girl is yours.”

Ophelia shifted uncomfortably, drawing her knees up a little closer to her chest.

“Is little Draco on this Inquisitorial Squad?” Rabastan asked.

She nodded. “Not that it matters. Severus already made him a prefect.”

He furrowed his brow. “Not you?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I didn’t want it.”

“Why ever not, girl?”

“I need to study,” she tried to justify, “I did so well on my O.W.L.s, and I’ve got N.E.W.T.s coming up next year, so—”

“ _What_?” Rabastan laughed; a cruel and mocking sound. “You don’t need school marks to be a queen, Ophelia. Everything you need for that, you were born with.”

She looked away, squirming in her seat.

“What?” he probed, almost making fun of her, “What are your plans, then? What do you hope to do with all those N.E.W.T.s?”

She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. What’s wrong with wanting to finish school? I just think it would be wise to ensure that I have options. For when… When this is all over.”

“ _’When this is all over_?’” Her father exhaled a knowing chuckle. “My dear, this is only the beginning.”

.

.

.

“Lifetime ban?” Fred demanded, “ _LIFETIME BAN_?”

“It’s not my fault!” George defended, “You’d have hit him, too, if they hadn’t been holding you back!”

“God _dammit_!” Fred slammed his fist hard into the wooden bedpost, an action he immediately regretted. “Fuck!” He shook his hand, trying to clear the pain, now more frustrated than ever.

They were alone in their dormitory, still dressed in their muddy Quidditch robes. Everyone had scattered when George and Harry had arrived back in the Common Room, knowing better than to try and get in their way. The way they looked, you never would’ve guessed that Gryffindor had won the match.

“I’m done, George, I mean it,” he grumbled, beginning to pace back and forth across the room as he massaged his knuckles, “Really, really done with this _rubbish_.”

George was coursing with a strange kind of anger, like he was on the brink of frustrated tears. Not like his brother. Fred just seemed _angry_ , angry.

Just then, they heard a familiar voice from down in the Common Room.

“Hey!” Alicia shouted, “You can’t be in here! Get out!”

“I can do whatever I want!” she sneered, and they knew she was flashing that damned Inquisitorial Squad badge around, “Stand aside, this instant!”

“No!”

After a tense beat of silence, she spoke again, much softer and more venomously. “You know, I’m not sure Gryffindor even needs a Quidditch team, at all.” The tone was so quintessentially Lucius Malfoy. It always sent a shiver of fear up their spines to hear her talk like that.

Fred groaned in frustration, sitting down on his bed. “Go and get her, will you? Christ, she’s gonna bring the whole tower down.”

George poked his head out of the door, and caught sight of Ophelia and Alicia squaring off on the stairs.

“Oi!” he called down to her, “You trying to start another fight, or what, Lestrange?”

“ _You_!” she snarled, forcing her way past Alicia, “Are you the one that hit him? Did you hit my Draco?”

“What, your ferrety little boyfriend sent you up here to fight his battles for him?” he taunted.

She shoved past him, into the dormitory, and slammed the door behind her.

“Fucking hell, Ophelia!” Fred shouted, wincing at the sound.

All at once, her expression changed entirely. It was a disturbing transition, to say the least. Any other time, the twins would’ve been quite entertained by the little show she’d just put on. But not today. Not now.

“Are you alright?” she implored, taking George’s face in her hands, “My darling, I’ve been so worried.”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he grumbled, trying to keep his tone level. None of this was her fault, he told himself. There was nothing she could’ve done to stop it. And now, she’d gone to a lot of trouble to come up here and make it better, for them. She’d put herself at great risk, just to see if they were alright.

“What happened?” she implored, looking between them.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Fred nearly shouted, “I saw _you_ , up in the stands. You can’t tell me that was fair, Ophelia, you just can’t.”

“It wasn’t fair, not at _all_!” she exclaimed, “That was horrible, what Draco was saying, I honestly thought about trying to hex him myself!”

“Yeah?” He began to tug angrily at his uniform, stripping pieces away and flinging them across the room. “Why didn’t you, then?”

“No, you _know_ that’s not fair, Freddie!” she defended.

He paid her no mind, continuing to yank haphazardly at his robes.

She sighed, sitting down beside him. “Stop, you’re going to rip it.” With calm, gentle hands, she unbuckled the robes from across his chest, slipping them from his shoulders. His heart was pounding in anger, she could feel it. But she could also tell he was doing his best to calm down, for her.

“Thanks,” he said weakly, avoiding her gaze.

“Did you hit something, my love?” she asked, taking his hand in hers. His knuckles were badly scraped, from the bedpost.

“No,” he needlessly lied, taking his hand away again.

“Alright,” she said, pressing a kiss to his temple.

George fell in an angry heap beside her. She pulled his hand over into her lap, and set about unlacing the hard leather guard from around his forearm.

“What did Umbridge say, then?” she asked softly.

“Lifetime ban,” George said flatly, “For Harry and us.”

She looked up at Fred. “You too? But you didn’t even—”

“I know,” he interrupted, “Trouble with being twins, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, she didn’t ban Ron,” George realized bitterly.

The thought did occur to Ophelia that, if Umbridge _had_ banned Ron, all the team’s troubles would’ve ended right then and there. But she knew better than to say that aloud.

“She took our brooms,” George said, watching intently as she started in on his other arm. There was something strangely calming about what she was doing. He could feel his heart slowing, and suddenly realized how tired he was.

Ophelia shook her head. “I’m so sorry. It’s not fair, and you didn’t deserve any of this.”

“We’ll be out of here, soon, anyway,” Fred announced.

“What does that mean?” she asked cautiously, masking her sudden spike of anxiety.

He shrugged. “I don’t reckon we need N.E.W.T.s. May as well fuck off now, before we get into any more trouble.”

George nodded, making some small, wordless sound in agreement.

It wasn’t the first time they’d said it, but for the first time, she believed them. And she knew, all at once, that they were exactly right. There was no reason for them to be at Hogwarts, anymore. They had a future waiting for them, in Diagon Alley; bright and beautiful and unfettered. But, for the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to tell them to go. It was entirely selfish, she knew that. But the thought of losing them, even if it was only for a few short months, made her sick with worry.

“You’re loads better at that than I am,” George quietly observed, as she slipped the guard from his arm.

“A lifetime of corset laces,” she said, tossing it over onto his bed.

George leaned over to rest his head on her shoulder, and Fred followed suit.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” he said quietly.

She slipped her hand into his. “I know you are,” she softly reassured him, “Everything will be alright, my darlings. Just think of your big, beautiful shop, and all of the marvelous things you’ll fill it with.”


	13. And You Feel Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossing canons, I know. Nobody tell Anne Rice. But come on: who do we know that had a wildly successful, supernatural Goth band in the early '90s? Just try and tell me our spooky girl wouldn't stan him to death.

Draco and Ophelia were walking through the halls together, one afternoon. A two-set picture of dark, regal authority. He was pushing 1st Years around, deducting points from every other house. His typical, bullying fare. Ophelia followed behind him in demure silence, head held high. She didn’t condone this behavior, but she knew to pick her battles.

Just then, the twins emerged head-on from the crowd.

“ _Madame Lestrange_!” they sneered, shoulder-checking her hard on each side. She stumbled genuinely, forcing herself not to grab for them to keep from falling. They laughed. The bastards.

“How _dare_ you! Filthy blood-traitors!” Draco snapped, snatching for her and pulling her close.

Fred scoffed. “Get stuffed, Malfoy.”

It was then that Ophelia realized, with a rush of delight, that they’d each slipped something into her pocket. She had to tamp down the smile threatening to split her face in two.

“That’ll be 25 points from Gryffindor, _each_ ,” Draco sneered, “For attacking a member of the Inquisitorial Squad.”

The twins scowled. “ _You jumped-up little git_!”

“Get moving!” Ophelia commanded them, shoving Fred back by the chest, “Or I’ll double it!”

“I tell you what, George,” Fred remarked as they turned way, “I reckon that girl’s in love with me.”

“Don’t you talk about her like that!” Draco shouted after them, “That’s another five points each!”

“Worth it for you, gorgeous!” Fred turned and gave her a lewd wink, to which she gasped in shock.

“That’s five more from you, then!” she shrieked, adding a hasty, “Whoever you are!”

He blew her a kiss, and they disappeared around the corner.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked, fervently straightening her robes and hair, “That whole family makes me sick. I swear, someday, we’ll finally be allowed to—”

“I’m fine, Draco,” she snapped, pushing him away. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

His eyes glinted with fury. “My fath—”

“Oh my god,” Ophelia rolled her eyes. “Will do _what_ , to me, precisely?”

He opened his mouth as if to argue further, but then paused. His face darkened with something like comprehension, and he just gaped at her for a moment. “You’re still sleeping with one of them,” he said softly.

She scoffed. “You’ve gone as mad as your father.”

Draco doubled down. “No, that’s it, isn’t it? That’s where you run off to, at night, you’re still sneaking around with them!”

Ophelia had heard enough. She grabbed him by the back of the neck, forcing him close, so she could whisper in his ear. It was times like these that she was supremely grateful for her height advantage.

Her voice slipped through her lips on a venomous hiss. “You listen to me, Malfoy, and you listen well.” It was Rodolphus’ vitriol, spoken in her voice. “I do what the Dark Lord instructs. _Only_ what the Dark Lord instructs.”

He tried to jerk away, but she held fast.

“ _No_. My agendas _far_ supersede yours,” she snarled, “So, stop acting like a child, and stay out of my way. Or do I need to involve _my_ father?”

Finally, she cast him away. He squared up to her, and for a moment, she was afraid he’d try to argue with her. Cause a scene, here in the packed hallway. But the fire in his eyes quickly faded from anger, to guarded fear. And, after a moment, scorn. In a jilted huff, he turned, and resumed shouting at 1st years. The microcosm he could control.

When she was sure he’d left, she ducked behind a suit of armor. That had been close. Too close. The last thing she needed was Draco ruining things by interfering. He’d always held a kind of sick sense of ownership over her, but times were different. She had a Mark, and he did not. Voldemort favored her. And, with any luck, the stern reminder had scared him off trying that again.

Out of sight of her classmates, Ophelia shook off the conversation, and dug anxiously through her pockets. Fred and George had each slipped her a folded piece of parchment. The one on the left read:

_I love you, and we’ll see you tonight._

And the one on the right read:

_**“something sweet”** _

Clasping the scraps of paper over her heart, she couldn’t help but smile, as her head fell back against the stone wall.

“50 points to Gryffindor,” she murmured, “Because George Weasley is a lover and a gentleman. And 15 to Fred Weasley, for effort.”

Ophelia lingered discreetly near the as-of-yet invisible door to the Room of Requirement. She was around the corner, waiting patiently for the DA to come filing out. It was their final meeting before the Christmas holiday.

At last, the door materialized, and swung open. She ducked out of sight, and watched as a crowd filtered out into the hall. Neville, Ginny, Luna, Seamus, Dean. A few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. She frowned at the sight. Clearly, her advice had gone unheeded. They couldn’t be walking around in a big group like that, and if she was able to catch them, that meant someone else would be able to catch them, too. Another member of the Inquisitorial Squad, Filch, or Umbridge herself. She’d have a word with Harry about it. Ron and Hermione came last, and she noted the dubious absence of the twins. Checking that the coast was clear, she crept around the corner, and peered into the room.

“Listen, Harry—” Fred was imploring, as the pair bore down on him.

“—we’ve been thinking we’d slip Filch some Fever Fudge!”

With a wry smile, Ophelia took note of the fact that Cho Chang was lingering in the corner, back turned, making a big spectacle of being preoccupied with a fraying cushion. Harry kept glancing over his shoulder towards her, clearly trying to shed the twins.

But Fred soldiered on. “They give you these massive, pus-filled boils, right on your—”

“Will you leave him alone?” she whispered, announcing her presence.

“ _Hey!”_ they greeted in unison, smiling brightly.

“Come on,” she urged, taking them each by the hand and adding conspiratorially, “I think Harry’s got better things to do than listen to your dodgy business!”

The pair finally noticed Cho. They laughed knowingly as Ophelia dragged them towards the door, leaving poor Harry to languish alone.

“How was it, then?” she asked as they made their way to the tunnel from which she’d emerged.

“It was alright,” George shrugged non-committedly.

“Would’ve been better if he’d given us the go-ahead on that Fever Fudge.”

“Yeah, there’s a deep sense of satisfaction that comes from pulling a thing like that, and to be quite honest, watching The Chosen One cast _Expelliarimus_ eight thousand times in a row just can’t compare.”

“Reckon we’ll just do it anyway.”

“Too right.”

She stifled a laugh, as she stepped up into the tunnel. They followed her.

“How was your night, gorgeous?” George asked.

“Rather uneventful, considering. I led the Inquisitorial Squad on a wild goose chase through the Forbidden Forest, in search of that _elusive_ D.A.”

“Oh no,” Fred murmured in mock-seriousness, clutching for an invisible strand of pearls, “I do hope you’ve apprehended those scoundrels!”

She laughed. “It would seem they’ve evaded capture yet again. I did see your car, though!”

“Ahh, how’s she doing?” George tenderly implored.

“She’s fine. I got to watch her scare the life out of a squirrel that got too close. Scared the life out of Vincent Crabbe, too.”

Fred shook his head, sealing the tunnel behind them. “I do so worry about her.”

“Yes,” George agreed, “I hope she’s taking care of herself, all alone out there.”

“Oh! I loved your notes, by the way,” Ophelia praised, “And, you should know, I gave those points back.”

“Yeah, we noticed!” George beamed, “Thanks for that, love!”

“You know, Pansy Parkinson took 50 from me, yesterday,” Fred said.

“Oh?” she challenged, “And what were you doing to deserve it?”

“Nothing!” he defended, indignant.

“Alright, then—” With a wry smile, she leaned in close, slipping one hand up between his legs. “50 points to Gryffindor, because Fred Weasley has a really big prick.”

He laughed lustily, pressing her hand hard against him. “What, and worth only 50?”

“I reckon she’s overpaying as it is,” George shrugged. “Hang on, where are we actually going, Ophelia?”

“Yeah, that’s a fair point, isn’t it?” Fred realized, looking around, “That room’s meant to be ours, after meetings, that crafty little git.”

“God knows _what_ those kids are doing to each other, in there,” George grumbled bitterly.

Fred shook his head. “Disgraceful.”

“No, I’ve got something even better!” Ophelia assured them with a thrill, “I promise! Consider it a Christmas present.”

After a short journey through the castle walls, they emerged in the fifth-floor corridor, creeping silently out into the hall. At the sight of the statue of Boris the Bewildered, the twins could hardly contain their excitement.

“Ophelia, you _didn’t_!” George gasped.

She shushed him, stepping up to the door. “Lavender daydream,” she whispered to the keyhole, and it swung open.

Fred and George were virtually humming with excitement as they stepped inside. The room was a cavernous, white-marble space, lit with dozens of candelabras. In the center of the room, a deep pool was sunk into the floor, lined with dozens of golden taps. Neat stacks of towels and bathrobes hugged the far wall, along with an assortment of inviting-looking flasks and phials. A stained-glass window depicting a preening mermaid glittered above the tub.

“The Prefect’s Bathroom,” Fred marveled aloud, throwing an arm over Ophelia’s shoulder. “This is our Holy Grail, Lestrange.”

“You’re brilliant, love!” George praised, “How did you get the password?”

“Draco,” she illuminated, closing the door with a wave of her wand, “Stupid bastard, can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

“Freddie,” George gasped, “Think of the _chaos_.”

He nodded ruefully. “The years of planning that have gone into this—”

“—and we owe it all to Ophelia Lestrange.”

She smiled proudly, kissing them twice each, back and forth. “You can cause all the trouble you like,” she allowed, “But you’re gonna give me one _proper_ evening, or so help me, I’ll take those points right back.”

“ _On what grounds_?” they challenged.

“Failure to comply with a direct order to _fuck_ a member of the Inquisitorial Squad until she can’t remember her own name!” she announced animatedly, beginning to strip her robes away. With a chaotic wave of her wand, she set a few of the taps running. The radio in the corner crackled to life, the music echoing off the marble surfaces.

“Well—”

“—when you put it like _that_.”

Gleefully, the twins shed their clothing, and began twisting taps haphazardly. Despite the size of the tub, it filled alarmingly quickly.

Fred scooped her, shrieking, off the ground.

“Alright, Lestrange,” he announced, holding fast as she tried to squirm away, “Time for you to test the water for us!”

“No, no, no, _no_ —!”

He paid her no mind, heaving her into the water. When the shock of the impact wore off, she found it was comfortably warm. She emerged, laughing and sputtering, combing her hair back from her face.

“You wanker!” she cried, sending a wave of water over the rim of the tub towards him. “Can’t we, as a civilized society, please just _abandon_ the completely _overwrought_ concept of tossing girls we fancy into the water?

“Yeah, Freddie,” George condescended, “Can’t you be _civilized_?” He gave him a hard shove between the shoulder blades, sending him stumbling towards the pool. A moment before he fell, Fred managed to grab a handful of his brother’s hair, yanking him down along with him.

They splashed into the tub in spectacular fashion, dousing Ophelia in the process. They emerged from the water over and over, shouting and grappling with one another, and dousing the entire, cavernous room in the process. She was endlessly amused, until they simultaneously had the idea to round on her.

“Oh, no,” she cautioned, laughing nervously, “No, I said _proper_ evening! You two just stay over there!”

“ _Get her_!”

“Ophelia, what is this rubbish you’ve got us listening to?” Fred whined, screwing his face up in disgust.

The three were reclined in the corner of the tub, soaking languidly in the warm water. Ophelia was held tightly in Fred’s arms, her legs slung over George’s lap.

“It’s the Vampire Lestat, you cultureless beast!” she bitterly defended, flicking water up into his face.

The male vocalist sang in a plaintiff tenor, “ _The hunger inside, given to me, makes me what I am. Always it is calling me, for the blood of man_.”

“Well, its rubbish.”

“It is _not_ rubbish!”

“Isn’t this that French poof you’re always banging on about?” George needled, quite obviously attempting to get a rise out of her.

She didn’t take the bait, instead divulging, “French- _American_.”

Fred made an aminated show of pretending to vomit, much to his brother’s amusement.

“He’s more than two hundred years old,” she soldiered on, paying them no mind, “Muggles don’t believe it, they think he’s just putting on an act. But it’s real, he was born in 1758.”

“You’d think he’d have learned to sing in all that time,” George prodded.

“ _They say I cannot be this, I am jaded, hiding from the day! I can’t bear, I cannot, tame the hunger in me!_ ” she sang along, delighting in their agonized groans.

“We love you, Ophelia,” Fred cautioned, “But there’s a bloody limit.”

“You’re lucky we’re in a good mood.”

“Yeah, god,” Fred exhaled, “Prefect’s Bathroom, I can hardly believe we’re in here. Reckon I can die happy, now.”

“The White Quail of our Hogwarts career has finally been slain.”

Ophelia giggled, looking between them. “White Quail? What on _earth_ is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a Muggle thing,” George explained, more than a little proudly.

“Dad’s got this big book of Muggle sayings.”

“It’s supposed to mean, like, a thing that you’ll go to the ends of the earth to conquer.”

They always loved teaching her about Muggle things. It was the one thing they always knew they’d be smarter at.

She stammered, shaking her head. “What? How the hell does that mean—?”

“There’s a story!” George explained, “This ship captain goes around trying to hunt down a big, white quail, ‘cause it bit his leg off!”

“A… A _bird_?” she asked in disbelief, “A little bird bit his _entire_ leg off?”

“Hey, we didn’t write it,” Fred shrugged.

“You’re trying to trick me,” she remarked, turning to straddle Fred’s lap, “And I simply won’t take it.”

He laughed lustily, snaking his arms up her back. His fingers curled over her shoulders, and he pressed her down into him. “That’s alright. I reckon I’ve got something better for you to take, anyway.”

She giggled. "What, _again?"_

"You're damn right _, again._ "

George kicked off from the wall to swim around behind her. He combed her wet hair away from her neck, letting his teeth graze along her ear. "And again, and again, and again—"

A shock of heat spread through her chest at the feeling of his hands on her. His fingertips traced light, torturous patterns across her skin, working their way down, down, down…

“—every day, for the rest of your spooky life.”


	14. I Burned Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and the short section. I've had a minor personal tragedy to attend to. But I'm getting back into the swing of things. Next chapter is just fun, I promise.

_Listen, I can't make, make a sound or feel._

_Feel fine, I kissed the lies, why must they be so kissable?_

_Listen as I break, break the fourth wall's seal._

_Gorgeous eyes shine suicide, when will we be invisible?_

_This is the fall, this is the long way down._

_And our lives look smaller now, and our lives look so small._

It was a dark day, when Arthur Weasley was attacked in the Department of Mysteries. To make it all the worse, Ophelia heard about it in a letter from her father. And by then, Harry and the Weasleys had already left school to be with him. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

It wasn’t as though she’d expected an invitation to Christmas at Grimmauld Place. She knew that her presence would offer little comfort to the Weasleys, especially in light of recent events. In fact, she feared, quite the opposite. But if she’d had any inkling whatsoever of what Voldemort had been planning, she’d have warned them. Surely, they must understand that.

No, instead, she made do with a letter wishing them all a Happy Christmas, sent along with Fred and George’s present: a new record player, the best money could buy, and a stack of Muggle records that were _very_ difficult to come by. David Bowie, Roxy Music, Simply Red (which she thought was _terribly_ clever), Rolling Stones, and even a Smith’s album. Just so they wouldn’t forget who loved them. Ironic though it was, Fred and George also got _her_ a stack of records: primarily Muggle music they thought she’d like. The Cure, The Ramones, Type O Negative, The Cocteau Twins (which _they_ thought was terribly clever), and Joy Division. When the fantastic coincidence had been discovered, Fred wrote to her that “great minds think alike.” Ophelia was honored to have been included, for the very first time, in something that she had only ever heard them say to each other.

Meanwhile, the Lestranges had their own plans, for the holidays. For the first time in 15 years, both sides of the family would reunite in _îl-de-France,_ and celebrate the return of the Dark Lord. It was as extravagant an affair as she could ever have imagined; the entire family together under one roof. Reinhart and Clarisse held royal court as king and queen, amongst such honored guests as Rosier, Tremblay, Perrot, Lafite, and yes, even the Travers.

Her reunion with Augustin was awkward, at first. It seemed rather forced; his mother urging him over in her direction, trying to coax him into saying hello. But when it became apparent that Ophelia had been working very hard on her French, he reluctantly admitted he’d been working on his English, as well. And, quite guiltily, she agreed to dance with him once more.

Upon their return to Hogwarts in January, Fred and George decided that they had, as they’d so eloquently put it to Ophelia, _run out of fucks to give_. There was a surprise fireworks display, somewhere in the castle, nearly every day. Their pranks on Filch, and the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad, intensified substantially. But their masterpiece came in the form of a vast, foul-smelling bog they’d somehow managed to conjure in the hallway outside of Umbridge’s office. (Some sort of prototype they intended to sell at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, George told her, once they’d ironed out the details.) No matter what she did, Umbridge couldn’t seem to vanish the damn thing. And, when she enlisted the help of Professor Flitwick, everyone seemed to agree that he was only _pretending_ to be stumped by the problem.

Filch had no choice but to row the students across the hall in one of the boats typically used to bring 1stYears across the lake. One morning, the twins managed to elbow their way through the queue and clamber into the same boat as Ophelia. Halfway across, Fred though it would be terribly funny to push her into the water. If she’d been expecting it (and, by all accounts, she really should’ve been) she would have grabbed hold and brought him down with her. Alas, she had to settle for very loudly deducting 50 points from Gryffindor, which she promptly returned later that night for “exceptionally apologetic servicing.”

And though practically everyone in the school knew precisely who was behind all of the recent pranks and disruptions, no one said a word. Behind closed doors, Fred and George were being celebrated as heroes. And Ophelia had never been prouder of them.

.

.

.

When Ophelia stepped into the nearly-empty D.A. Meeting room, just in time for a meeting of her own, she could tell immediately that something was wrong. Fred and George were huddled together on the floor, their backs turned to the door. She could hear them whispering softly to one another.

“Hello?” she offered tentatively.

They whipped around at the sound of her voice, and she could see that they were very, very pale. Her heart leapt into her throat.

“What’s wrong, my darlings?” she asked gently, joining them on the floor.

They made space for her between them, and she caught sight of them exchanging worried glances.

“What?” she prodded, looking between them. Her panic was deepening. There was a chance (a rather large one, to be honest) that they were having her on. But something about the quality of their silence filled her with genuine dread.

“We, er… We fucked up, O,” Fred finally murmured, reaching over to take her by the hand. He was shaking.

“What? How? What did you do?”

“ _Montague_.”

Ophelia blanched. “Don’t tell me you had something to do with that.”

They nodded bitterly, avoiding her gaze.

“What happened?” she pressed, careful to guard her tone.

George stammered for a moment. “He was trying to take points from us, a few weeks ago—”

“—I don’t even remember what we were doing—”

“—not like it matters, anymore, anyway.”

Panic and frustration were building up within her like steam trapped beneath a cauldron lid. “Darlings,” she whispered, “What did you _do_?”

“Shoved him head-first into that knackered old Vanishing Cabinet, didn’t we?” Fred finally admitted.

For a moment, Ophelia wasn’t sure if she was screaming aloud, or if the sound was entirely inside her own head. Her mouth was open, yes. But the twins weren’t reacting.

The Vanishing Cabinet.

The Room of Hidden Things.

“That—” she stammered, “You… What?”

She had seen Montague with her own eyes; seen his parents storming into the castle. Seen Madame Pomfrey spoon-feeding him in the Hospital Wing. He was catatonic. Non-functional.

Broken.

“Yeah,” Fred nodded morosely.

“We didn’t know what would happen to him, did we?” George tried to justify.

 _But I did_ , she thought madly. _I knew._

“Darlings,” she breathed, “Why… Why didn’t you tell me?” It was the only thing she could think to say. But it was so hollow, so empty. Accusatory in a way she hadn’t intended. And hypocritical in a way that made her sick.

They did not answer. They _had_ no answer, none that they could give her. What would they have said?

_[“Well, we’re pretty fed up with the Inquisitorial Squad, but we can’t very well take it out on you, now, can we?”_

_“Yeah, you’re a hard one to love, Lestrange, no matter how many House points you sneak back to us.”_

_“Complaining about it’s no good, not to you. After all you do for us? But, honestly, how much of this are we meant to take before we snap?”]_

The glance they shared carried the weight of so much unspoken pain.

She was too stunned to notice. “He… Montague, he… He may never recover.”

“We know that, don’t we?” Fred grumbled, rubbing at his forehead.

“And we had to reckon the Cabinet was broken, but we didn’t think it was _that_ broken!” George justified.

Ophelia swallowed hard. “Who else knows?”

“Lee,” George said, “Harry, Ron, and Hermione. And now you.”

“You can’t tell anyone else,” she was quick to impress, “No one. It’s dangerous enough, the kids knowing.”

“ _We know that.”_

She began to rock back and forth in a panic. Fred had orchestrated this little stunt, of that she was certain. Like so many of the crueler things they’d done, George had just been along for the ride. Trying to trick Ron into making an Unbreakable Vow, feeding a firecracker to that Salamander when Hagrid wasn’t looking, turning Neville into a canary, and now this. It was one of those dark impulses that he seemed to so readily give into. But it had been her fault, all along, hadn’t it? Fred had been thinking of the Vanishing Cabinet because of _her_ , because he _knew_ she was doing something with it, but she was _breaking_ it! Maybe Montague would be alright, now, if it weren’t for her. Maybe… Maybe… Maybe…

“What on earth were you thinking?” she whispered shakily, “What were you—?”

“Ophelia,” George interrupted, and she could hear the hurt in his voice.

It snapped her out of her catatonia, at least. She looked up to find that he seemed on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry,” she quickly added, taking his hand in hers, “I’m sorry, I’m just…” _Just what?_

“We need to get out of here,” Fred suddenly announced.

George nodded gravely.

And, for the first time, Ophelia agreed entirely.


	15. You Let Me Feel Your Danger *Explicit Content*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said that thing, a few chapters ago, about trying to *avoid* this kind of content? Well, I'm a fucking liar, I guess.

“What are you doing?” Fred needled.

“I’m _studying_ ,” she reiterated, for what seemed like the hundredth time.

The trio were piled together atop George’s bed, in the Gryffindor tower. It was a Hogsmeade day, which meant that the rest of the 7th Year boys were out. And, in a moment of boldness so typical of such beautiful thieves, Fred and George had snuck Ophelia into the dormitory. But, to their great dismay, she seemed hell-bent on reading. She was laying on her stomach, pouring through some massive, boring book about Divination.

Fred tried yet again to snatch for the book, but she swatted his hand away.

“I’ve told you a million times, this is why I’m not in Hogsmeade,” she scolded, “I need to study.”

“You don’t need to study,” George cajoled, flopping down beside her, “Sixth year exams are a doss.”

“Yeah,” Fred corroborated, “If we passed ‘em, that means _you_ can.”

“Besides,” George added, “You don’t need exams to be a _French Heiress_.”

“I hate that,” she scolded, trying to mask how much the remark had hurt her, “You sound just like my father, when you talk like that.”

Fred chuckled, scooting around behind her and beginning to unlace her boots. “Maybe your old man’s got a point.”

“Never say that again, Fred Weasley.”

He scoffed. “Bloody hell, you’re in a mood today, aren’t you?”

“Shouldn’t the two of you be studying, as well?” she needled, “Sixth year exams may be a _doss_ , but N.E.W.T.s certainly aren’t.”

“ _As if we’re taking N.E.W.T.s!”_

She rolled her eyes. “What are you _doing_ , Fred?” she sighed, finally casting him a weary glance.

“Taking the clothes off a beautiful girl?” he offered, tossing one of her boots haphazardly over his shoulder.

Her face flashed with something like anger and hurt, and she blinked hard. “Call me something different,” she nearly begged.

He cast her a bemused expression, getting to work on her other boot. “What are you on about?”

“You can call me anything you like, just not that. Please.”

“What?” George chuckled, “Why not?”

She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

Fred rolled his eyes, tossing her other boot across the room. “Whatever you say, my darling little treacle tart.”

“Hey!” she made a feeble attempt to kick him away. “ _You’re_ a tart!”

“Maybe I am,” he teased, beginning to kiss his way up her leg, “But that’s _your_ fault, isn’t it?”

She turned to George. “Does he demand this much attention when I’m not around?”

“Count yourself lucky,” George chuckled, “I’ve had 17 straight years of it.”

“I don’t need any attention,” Fred argued, slipping a hand up beneath her skirt, “You can lie there and study, for all I care. I’ll be down here, minding my own business. Don’t you worry _either_ of your pretty little heads about it.”

She scoffed, but found that her desire to kick him away was waning. “You had better be careful,” she heeded, “People won’t be in Hogsmeade forever, and I can’t imagine that _this_ will be an easy thing to explain.”

“Contribute, then,” George teased, tugging her shirt out from beneath her shirt and slipping his hand inside. The smooth warmth of her bare back made all of his senses perk up, and he was beginning to harden.

She rolled her eyes. “How about this? I’ll give you three minutes to do your worst, and if I’m not impressed by then, I get to go back to studying.”

Fred scoffed. “Three minutes? You’re making it too easy, Lestrange.”

“Go on, then,” she goaded, flipping idly through her book, “ _Thrill_ me, Weasley.”

With a rueful laugh, Fred closed the curtains around the bed with a wave of his wand, plunging them into near-darkness.

Ophelia rolled her eyes, and cast Lumos. Exasperated, George took her wand away, tossing it across the bed. Meanwhile, Fred had flipped her skirt up, and was beginning to work her underwear off.

“Georgie, my darling?” she asked, as he leaned in to lay kisses against her neck.

“Mmm?” His voice vibrated through her skin.

She flipped idly through her book. “How does Fred stir his cauldron?”

“ _Eh_?”

“In Potions class,” she pressed, “How does Fred stir his cauldron?”

The twins exchanged bemused glances.

“Like normal?” George guessed, gathering her hair out of his way, “I dunno?”

“Wrong,” she smirked, “He sticks his wand in, and waits for the world to revolve around him.”

George exhaled an explosive, “ _Hah_!”

In a flash, Fred had flipped her over onto her back. “Oi!” he laughed genuinely, pinning her beneath him, “Say that to my face, Lestrange!”

“I _said_ ,” she giggled, fighting feebly, “You stick your—"

The words faded to a shuddering moan when he abruptly thrust two fingers inside her.

“I what?” he taunted, curling his fingers upward.

“You— Oh, I _hate_ you!”

The triumphant look on his face made her cheeks go red. He began to work his fingers in and out, and then George was kissing her, moaning into her mouth, weaving his fingers through her hair.

“Get rid of this rubbish,” he mumbled, beginning to work through the buttons on her shirt. After a moment, his impatience got the better of him. “Sod it—” In one, swift motion, he rent her shirt open, sending the buttons flying off in every direction. Fred laughed appreciatively.

Ophelia gasped, shrieking with laughter and swatting at him. “ _That_ wasn’t very gentlemanly!”

“I’ll show you gentlemanly!” George caught her by the wrist, pressing her palm against the bulge in his jeans. She squeezed, despite herself. The warmth of it made him twitch.

She could hear the clink of Fred’s belt buckle as he crawled up the bed, dipping to take one of her breasts in his mouth.

“Come _on_ ,” she coaxed, reaching between them for his length, “They’re not going to be in Hogsmeade forever.”

“How the tables have turned,” George chuckled, rising to his knees to free his cock from his jeans.

She could feel Fred quivering with the thrill, as he pressed against her slick opening, struggling to find his mark with shaking hands. She whimpered in anticipation, reaching out blindly to take George in her hand.

He exhaled a long, broken, “Fff- _uck_ …” his head falling limply.

“You’d better keep quiet,” Fred panted, beginning to push his way inside her. Not enough to really stretch her, but enough to hold her attention. “ _Both_ of you. No telling _when_ —”

As if on cue, the door to the dormitory suddenly opened, and a few sets of footsteps made their way inside. The trio froze, looking between each other in panicked silence. The other 7th Year boys had returned from Hogsmeade, and could be heard laughing and joking as they made their way towards their respective beds.

George glared down at his twin. “You just _had_ to say that, didn’t you?” he whispered, “Couldn’t just keep you damn mouth shut for once in your—"

Wide eyed, Ophelia waved her hands at him, and he silenced.

There came the sound like someone had kicked something across the floor. “What do you reckon this is all about?” Kenneth chuckled.

Ophelia clapped a hand over her mouth, as the realization dawned on her. George gave her a questioning look, and Fred whispered a panicked, “ _Shoes_!”

“Dunno,” Lee mused, rather casually, “Twins probably nicked ‘em off some Slytherin, for a laugh. They’ve been in rare form, lately.”

“Hey, where are they, anyway? D’you reckon they’re holed up in there?”

Footsteps began nearing the bed. Fred tensed, eyes suddenly wide with panic. George’s hand flew to Ophelia’s shoulder, squeezing hard.

“George is probably ill, with Fred looking after him, and all,” Lee deflected, and the footsteps stopped, “That’s usually what it is, when they’re holed up together.”

Ophelia gave George a wryly questioning look, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“Leave ‘em lie, I reckon,” Lee stated definitively.

“Yeah, alright. Hey, where’s the Honeydukes bag?”

The trio breathed a cautious sigh of relief. But then, Fred looked down at Ophelia with an expression that couldn’t possibly bode well for any of them. Her eyes flew wide with the realization, and she shook her head frantically. But before she could stop him, he pulled back, and thrust his entire length into her. The loud, shocked moan that tore from her throat would have given them away, had George not possessed the foresight to quickly push his cock into her open mouth.

She was appalled. They were _fucking_ her with _other people in the room_ , how _dare_ they? But she couldn’t deny the perverse thrill that came with it, the way her heart raced from the danger. And, by the continued chatter from the other side of the curtains, it seemed that none of them were any the wiser.

Emboldened, Fred sat back on his knees, hauling her hips up onto his lap. With one hand, he took her by the waist and continued dragging her back and forth across his length. His other hand fell between her legs, his thumb pressing insistent circles over her clit.

How far he’d come, since their first, awkward time together.

The sharp, slick sounds of flesh against flesh were equally terrifying and thrilling, for her. She could only hope that the heavy curtains and conversation outside would be enough to forestall any discovery. _God, they’d better be quick!_

But George, for some reason, seemed to be so desperately holding back. His hand was resting gently on the back of her head, fingers gradually tightening through her hair and she bobbed her head up and down. It was an awkward angle, and Ophelia’s neck was beginning to ache, but she didn’t care. She looked up at George, his cheeks flushed, lips parted. God, he was never so beautiful as when he was entirely at her mercy, like this. Maybe he felt like he was in control, with his hand on the back of her head like that, but he was wrong.

He was raw, vulnerable. _Hers_.

When she flicked her eyes upwards to meet his, violet and hazel, his whole body seemed to shudder in response. He tightened his grip on her hair, seeming to actively slow her.

“Don’t do that,” he laughed softly, placing his free hand over her eyes, “You can’t _look_ at me like that, I’ll be done for!”

Stifling laughter, she shook him off and cast him a wry smile. Her lips brushed against the hot, glistening head of his cock as she whispered, “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Ever so slowly, she dragged the tip of her tongue up the underside of his length.

“Ah, fuck,” Fred breathed. He was transfixed by what Ophelia was doing to his twin. It was like getting a third-person view of himself. God, he could nearly feel her tongue slipping over the tip of his cock, just like she was doing to George, _exactly_ like that…

Despite himself, Fred was thrusting harder, faster. Ophelia had to choke back the cries trying to edge from her throat. She wanted to _scream_.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuuu_ —”

Fred’s eyes fell closed as he plunged himself deep inside her, and all the heat in his belly unraveled at once. Pouring into her.

“ _Shh_!” In a panic, Ophelia reached up and covered his mouth. George followed suit, clapping a desperate hand over hers.

Fred was stuck there for a long moment, his hips nudging instinctively in quick, deep thrusts while his length twitched and jerked inside her. Ophelia wished she had the strength to sit up in his lap, bear down on him, hold his cheek to her chest. She’d be able to feel his breath against her skin. _How delightful that would be_ , she thought indulgently. The notion made her ache, and she tightened around him.

His eyes fluttered in response, and she felt a loud moan vibrate against her palm. After a moment, Fred shoved their hands away from his face.

“Can’t bloody breathe!” he panted, perhaps more loudly than was safe, and they shushed him again.

“You won’t be able to breathe while McGonagall’s drowning you in the lake, either!” Ophelia whispered harshly.

"Go on, then, get out,” George urged, the shaking in his limbs betraying his anticipation.

Fred ignored him, instead hauling Ophelia up to sit in his lap. His jeans were bunched up awkwardly beneath her, his belt buckle digging into her skin, but she didn’t care. He kissed her hard, slipping his hands up her back and wrapping his fingers up over her shoulders to pull her down onto him.

It was like he’d read her mind.

“Fuck, I love you,” he murmured into her open mouth.

“ _Oi_!” George whispered harshly, swatting at them.

“Fine!” Fred groaned, “Have at her, then!”

As much as she’d been enjoying the thrilling, commanding things he was doing to her, Ophelia couldn’t deny: she _always_ craved George.

“Finally, _fuck_ ,” he exhaled, “Come here.”

He steered her into a kiss of his own, guiding her down to lie on her stomach. He spread his knees between her thighs and thrust into her in a single, smooth motion. She was tight and tense, but Fred’s orgasm made it so easy, so slick, and maybe somehow even _warmer_ …

 _Best not to think about it,_ George told himself, _it’s the exact same as mine, isn’t it? Why should it matter?_

She pressed back into him, as forcefully as she could manage, tightening hard.

“Oh, fuck, Ophelia,” George whispered, letting his hands slip up her sides, across that unbroken expanse of smooth, pale skin, over her ribs. He worked her arms up above her head and laced his fingers in between hers.

She whispered something, maybe his name. No one could be sure.

A slow sort of boiling pleasure began building up inside of her as he began to thrust. It was louder this time, she noticed. But by the unchanging chatter from outside, no one had noticed. Yet.

George’s legs were shaking, she could feel it.

“Hey, I think they’re leaving,” Fred pointed out, re-fastening his jeans.

George paused, the trio straining their ears to listen. Sure enough, he was right. They could hear retreating footsteps, voices growing softer, and then the telltale bang of the door as it shut behind them.

“Check to be sure,” George urged his brother in a whisper.

Cautiously, Fred poked his head out from between the curtains, and looked around. After a moment, he gave them the thumbs-up.

“Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” George exclaimed, rather loudly than she thought was safe.

Ophelia had to bury her face in the pillow to stifle her cry as he drove into her. He was clearly trying to draw this out, giving her his entire length with each thrust. All the way out, and then all the way back in again. His breath was hot against her ear, coming in quick bursts.

“Harder,” she begged, no more than a soft whimper.

He exhaled a laugh. “Whole— Whole castle’s gonna hear you—If I go any— _F-fuck_ , any harder!”

“Please!”

Against his better judgement, George indulged the request. Distantly, he was afraid his hipbones would bruise her ass. But she didn’t seem to mind what he was doing, in fact the opposite. He could feel her legs tightening around him, feel her back working its way into that telltale arch.

“Come with me!” she panted.

The command sent an urgent bolt of pleasure through his stomach. “Are you— You gonna?”

“Yes!”

“What, already?”

She could feel herself tightening around him, involuntarily. She could feel the cold, tingling feeling beginning to spread down her limbs. “ _Yes_!”

“Oh, _fuck_!”

The feeling of those rhythmic spasms around his cock sent George over the edge. His hands scrambled for purchase, somewhere to cling to, but the best he could do was to wrap an arm across her chest and hold on for dear life. He held himself deep inside her, and all the heat coiled in his stomach unraveled. It was a good one for her, too, he could tell. She was quiet, her mouth open in a silent scream as she just froze up beneath him. And though she’d started first, her pulsing didn’t stop until well after George’s climax had subsided. But he held on, for her. He stayed there with her until her head fell forward, and the tension in her limbs dissolved.

He fell to the bed beside her, tearing his shirt off over his head.

“Fuck,” he breathed, “That was good.”

Ophelia found she wasn’t quite able to speak, just yet. So, she laid her head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat as it began to slow.

“Hey, budge up,” Fred coaxed, and they moved over to make space for him. He settled in against her back, throwing an arm across her waist and holding her close.

Finally, she found her voice. “It’s—It’s a bloody good thing your bed doesn’t squeak, Georgie.”

The twins laughed genuinely, George craning his neck to kiss her on the forehead.

“I love you,” she allowed, “But I don’t think we ought to do this again.”

They scoffed in unison. “ _Oh, you’re no fun anymore_!”

At the sound of the door opening again, all three froze. Footsteps crossed the room, nearing the bed. Fred began frantically mouthing, “ _Shit, shit, shit,_ shit!” while Ophelia desperately attempted to keep him quiet. And then, after a pause, they heard Lee’s voice.

“Hi, Ophelia.”

She went red, clapping a hand over her mouth. George was wracked with silent laughter, forehead falling to her shoulder. Fred elbowed her, gesturing towards the sound, but she shook her head frantically.

“ _Go on!”_ he mouthed.

Finally, she cleared her throat, and offered a tentative, “Hello, Lee.”

He chuckled ruefully. “What, uh… Whatcha doin’ in here, O?”

She was quick to answer, “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” He sounded wholly unconvinced. “Mick and Keith in there with you?”

She looked between the twins in confusion, but they just laughed explosively.

“Ooh, _bingo_! You lot have some sort of a scheme to get her out of here, then?”

“Not really,” George called back.

“We’re not much for plans, Lee, you oughta know that.”

“But we improvise like no other!”

“You know you left her shoes all tossed about, in here,” he pointed out.

“ _We know_ ,” the trio answered in chagrined unison.

“You, er… You fancy clearing us a path out of here, Lee?” Fred asked sheepishly.

He seemed to consider it. “I’ll need some fireworks. Some of that Instant Darkness Powder, if you’ve got it.”

“ _Done_.”

“It’s all in George’s trunk—”

“—help yourself, mate.”

“ _And_ ,” he stipulated, “I won’t have the two of you taking credit for the legendary scene I’m about to cause, down in the Common Room.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Fred grinned.

“Lee, you’re a diamond.”

He groaned, and they could hear him rifling through the trunk. “The three of you owe me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an absolute bitch to write. I don't know why. For some reason, I can get these three started, get them into their stride, and then I always struggle to finish them. I've never had any other characters misbehave for me, quite like the Spicy Trio.


	16. Knights of Cydonia

_No one's gonna take me alive! The time has come to make things right._

_You and I must fight for our right! You and I must fight to survive._

Ophelia, Draco, and a handful of other Inquisitors sprinted down the grand, marble staircase towards the castle entryway. They had been called, with no lack of urgency, in response to some relatively unspecific disturbance. Ophelia knew that could only mean two things: Fred, and George.

It was just like the night when Trelawney had been sacked. Students were standing all around the walls in a great ring (some of them, she noticed, seemed to be covered in Stinksap). Teachers and ghosts had also assembled, Peeves doing idle cartwheels high overhead. And there they were, Fred and George, standing in the middle of the floor with the unmistakable look of two people who had finally been cornered.

The Inquisitors skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, wands drawn and pointed towards the twins. Their eyes darted over to meet Ophelia’s, and she saw the distinct flicker of a smile pass through each of their faces in turn. And then, their expressions hardened into looks of terrifying, unshakable determination, and they turned back towards the Headmistress.

“So!” Umbridge began triumphantly, standing on the stairs, “You think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?” The look on her face was that of a predator, about to ravenously devour her prey.

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” Fred shrugged, looking back up at her without so much as a hint of fear.

Filch came barreling through the crowd of students, elbowing his way closer to Umbridge. He was nearly weeping with joy.

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress,” he announced hoarsely, waving a piece of parchment. “I’ve got the form, and I’ve got the whips waiting! Oh, let me do it now!”

“Very good, Argus,” she praised. “You two,” she continued, turning back to Fred and George, “Are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.”

“You know what?” Fred challenged, “I don’t think we are.”

Ophelia’s stomach dropped. Silently, she begged them not to do anything stupid.

“George,” he turned to his twin, “I think we’ve outgrown full-time education.”

He nodded placidly. “Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself.”

“Time to test our talents in the real world, I reckon.”

“Oh, definitely.”

And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wands and cried, “ _Accio Brooms_!”

There was a loud crash from somewhere in the distance. Ophelia whipped around, ducking just in time to avoid Fred and George’s broomsticks as they hurtled down the hall. George’s was still trailing the heavy chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened it to the wall. They shot right into the twins outstretched hands.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Ophelia demanded authoritatively, brandishing her wand towards them. Despite her tone, she genuinely wanted to know. Her heart was pounding with the secondhand nerves, she could only imagine how they were feeling.

Fred chuckled, “I’ll tell you what _I’m_ doing, Lestrange—”

Before she knew what was happening, he had grabbed her wand arm, and yanked her into a hard kiss. Umbridge screamed, high and shrill. Half the crowd gasped in shock, the other half laughed and cheered. She was sure she could hear Harry’s voice among the latter contingent.

Emboldened by the attention, Fred dropped her into a dramatic dip. She made some noise of shock and protest, but the sound was stifled as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He was laughing. It made her want to laugh, too. In an odd way, it was as sweet a gesture as she’d ever received from him, and she wanted to give in to it. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, jump astride his broomstick, and let them whisk her away, never to return. But appearances had to be upheld. They may have been on their way out, but her work was far from over. And this little spectacle had gone on just long enough.

So, in an act she knew he’d come to approve of eventually, she bit down on his tongue. Hard.

He cried out in a blend of pain and shock, recoiling from the kiss. And then, for good measure, she slapped him across his grinning face. Not _too_ hard, but hard enough to send him stumbling backwards, clutching at his cheek. The crowd gasped, a few satisfied laughs rose from behind her. George was laughing, too, nearly doubled over. Draco grabbed her, then, wrapping a protective arm over her chest and pulling her away from the twins.

For a moment, Ophelia was afraid she’d genuinely hurt Fred. He brought his fingers to his lips, seeing the blood there. But then, he broke into a wide, satisfied grin, and blew her a kiss.

“Thanks for that, darling,” he winked lewdly.

“How dare you!” she spat venomously. The twins laughed in satisfaction, and despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched with a smile. She hoped, desperately, that Draco hadn’t noticed.

“Anyway, we won’t be seeing you,” Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick.

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” said George, mounting his own.

“If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs—”

“—come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley! Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes!”

“Our new premises!”

Ophelia had to choke back an astonished laugh. They were doing it, they were actually doing it. She’d never been so proud of them in all her life.

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they’re going to use our products to get rid of _this_ old bat,” George announced, pointing at the Headmistress.

“STOP THEM!” shrieked Umbridge.

The rest of the Inquisitorial Squad closed in. Draco, still clutching Ophelia to his chest, began sending spells haphazardly in their direction. To her great amusement, not a single one found its mark.

The twins kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below George’s broom. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd.

“Give her hell from us, Peeves,” he nodded towards the irate Umbridge.

Peeves, who had never once taken an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute.

“And you—” Fred pointed down at Ophelia, “Think of me, yeah?”

She gasped in overacted shock, clinging to Draco as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below. With one final wave, they shot out of the open front doors, and into the glorious sunset.

Ophelia smiled faintly as they disappeared, struck by an odd blend of emotions. Pride and fear, love and resentment. The other Inquisitors gather around her, touching her face, trying to offer help and comfort. Umbridge scurried up beside her, placing a puffy, pink-nailed hand on her arm. She was wailing something about “those vicious beasts” and “my poor, sweet, _brave_ girl!” Draco had devolved into an overwhelmed litany of slurs and insults. But she paid no mind to any of them. They all sounded so far away, as though they were shouting at her from underwater.

She could still taste Fred’s blood on her tongue.

That night, Ophelia scrawled a single, hasty sentence on a scrap of parchment.

Tell me you love me anyway

She carefully rolled it up, and tied it to Mischief’s leg, giving him a soft kiss on the beak. “Take this to Freddie and Orange,” she instructed, “They’re in Diagon Alley, now, alright?”

 _“Diagon Alley! Diagon Alley_!” he screeched in understanding, flapping out of the window.

She fell asleep thinking about Fred’s fantastic stunt, and wishing she were with them.

The following morning, she awoke to a disgruntled Mischief screeching at her from the end of the bed. In a flash, she retrieved the message he was carrying. And there, in the middle of the parchment, was one, single word:

**N** **O**

And then, below it:

Yes, he does. And I do, too.

F & G

She clutched it to her chest and laughed until Katie Rayknollis shouted for her to shut up.


	17. ...When the Party's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor O.

Without Fred and George, school became almost unbearable. She carried on helping the DA, of course, and sneaking points back to Gryffindor whenever she could. But it became an empty routine. No color, no laughter. No point to any of it at all.

About a week later, as she was leaving Charms class, she made a point to knock a stack of papers off of Professor Flitwick’s desk. And then, as she knelt beside him to help gather them up again, she whispered, “The swamp will go away on its own, tonight, unless you try and vanish it again.”

He watched her in stunned silence, as she strode from the room with the rest of the Slytherins.

The following morning, Ophelia was delighted to find that the swamp was still present. When she saw Professor Flitwick at breakfast, he gave her a polite nod.

One night, she found herself alone in the Room of Requirement. She’d asked for the DA meeting room, and it had obliged. It was strange: she had only ever seen this place empty. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to see it full of life and laughter. But she supposed she never would.

The mirrored walls felt so cold and detached as she walked past them. Lines upon lines of infinite Ophelia Lestranges all following her around the room. She didn’t like it. And then she noticed another Ophelia Lestrange leaning in one of the corners. It was a female mannequin, dressed in a crude facsimile of Death Eater’s robes. It had a target carved into its chest. And her name had been scrawled across the forehead of its skeletal, silver mask in red paint.

Target practice.

It bothered her less than it should have.

An array of photographs was clustered together on the back wall, she noted. Cedric Diggory’s Triwizard Champion portrait. Lily and James Potter, dancing in each other’s arms. Professor Lupin. Dumbledore himself, younger than she’d ever seen him. That one seemed to have been torn out of a book.

Right in the middle, there was a photo of the original Order of the Phoenix, all young and healthy and smiling. Kingsley, Moody. All of the Marauders, along with Lily. The Tonks’. Frank and Alice Longbottom, sane and happy. The Prewitts were there, too, Molly standing between her twin brothers, Fabian and Gideon. They were tall and identical and handsome, like the nephews who had been named for them. The nephews they’d never met. Arthur was beside them, one arm around his wife’s shoulders, the other cradling baby Bill.

And then Ophelia noticed a photograph she’d never seen before. It looked extremely recent. It had to have been, because it depicted Fred and George, arms around each other’s shoulders, standing on the steps of 93 Diagon Alley. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. It was painted a not-at-all-subtle shade of orange, the front door emblazoned with their starburst logo. They were absolutely radiant, dressed in matching, burnt-umber suits. Fred’s shirt was lighter, George’s tie darker. They were laughing and waving, blowing kisses. She took the picture from the mirror, flipping it over. On the back was written:

**Mischief managed!**

**F & G**

Parting words for the Army, scrawled in Freddie’s chaotic handwriting. And, all at once, she was crying. All of the sadness and abandonment poured out of her, and she sank to the floor, clinging to the photograph.

“But why did you _leave_ me?” she demanded softly, gazing down at their smiling faces. “How _dare_ you?”

“Ophelia?”

She looked up in shock, to see Neville standing alone in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, wiping her tears away and getting to her feet, “I’ll go, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he offered, closing the door behind him, “You can stay. No one else is coming.”

She nodded, sinking back to the floor. “Thank you.”

He took his place beside her; an awkward, somewhat stilted motion. “Sorry about that,” he said, pointing to the mannequin across the room.

“Don’t worry about it,” she waved him off. “It’s good for my cover.”

“It was Ron’s idea.”

That didn’t surprise her in the least. “Of course, it was.”

They sat together in silence for a time, Ophelia clutching the photograph of Fred and George in her lap. For her, the shared quiet was comfortable. She didn’t mind it. But she could see Neville squirming beside her, and thought it would be best to help him.

“I come in here sometimes, when it’s empty,” she told him, “I don’t know why.”

“I do, too,” he admitted, “I like looking at that picture of the old Order.”

She understood. It tugged uncomfortably at her insides, but she understood. Impulsively, she asked, “Do you ever see them?”

He shifted anxiously. For a moment, she regretted bringing it up, and she was almost certain he would not answer. But, to her surprise, he did.

“My gran takes me over to see them about twice a year. But they can’t really speak. They… They don’t remember I’m their son.”

She looked over at him, took in his downturned gaze, his tightly-laced fingers. “Neville,” she said softly.

He looked up, struggling to hold her gaze for very long.

“They’d be proud of you, you know,” she told him, “For doing this. For the person you are.”

He looked away, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Thanks.” After a pause, he added, “I think they’d be proud of you, too.”

The tears were back, just as quickly as they’d come before. Neville was, for his part, terrified. For once, not because there was a Lestrange in the room, but because he seemed to have just made a very tall, very pretty girl cry. He stiffly extended a hand, patting her lightly on the back. She leaned over gratefully, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Neville,” she whimpered, slipping her arm through his, “I’m sorry for what my family did to yours. I’d die, if it meant I could put it right.”

“It wasn’t you,” he reassured her, gingerly patting her arm. He had no idea what to do with his hands, now.

“We didn’t deserve it,” she said, “You and I, we didn’t deserve what they did.”

“You’re right about that,” he agreed, looking down at her, “But that’s why we’re fighting.”

She nodded, looking back down at the picture. Her reasons for fighting.

Neville leaned over to see what she was holding. He smiled, grateful for a reason to change the subject. “Oh, they sent that along a few days ago,” he told her, “They seem like they’re doing well. Everyone’s really happy for them.”

She nodded, making a weak attempt to return his smile. “I miss them so much. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing, without them around. It’s like there’s one less color in the world. And I’m so…” She pressed her eyes shut, trying to stave off any more tears. “ _Angry_ with them for leaving me.”

He nodded, a little unsure of what to say. “I, er… I saw when they left.”

She breathed a monosyllabic laugh, a hint of bitterness behind it. “I can’t believe he did that.”

“Which one was it, anyway?”

She could hear the question behind the question, but she answered nonetheless. “That was Fred,” she told him, “Georgie would never.”

He laughed quietly. “Now that you point it out, it makes sense.”

She sat up, wiping her tears away yet again. “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had, Neville.”

He nodded. “I know what that’s like.”

A soft smile spread across her face, then. She thought about George, about the feeling of his hands on her cheeks, sweeping her head backwards to kiss her in the library. She thought about what it was like to wake up on Boxing Day, in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. Laying between them, sprawled across the two beds. She thought about climbing in through their window at The Burrow, in the dead of night. Gazing down at them as she sat atop the bar, in the pub. Their night at Grimmauld Place. The memories filled her head with a kind of warm delirium, and for a moment, she was happy.

She drew her wand, and with a flourishing wave, whispered, “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

From the tip of her long, ebony wand sprang not one silver creature, but two. A lean, leaping coyote, and a grinning hyena. They chased each other around the room, floating a few feet off the ground. Circling around her and Neville, tackling one another playfully.

“Yeah,” Neville remarked, a bemused smile on his face, “I’d been wondering for a while, actually.”

The dogs ran up either side of her, nuzzling into her neck. “Really?”

He shrugged. “It’s amazing what you notice, when people are always forgetting you’re there.”

She laughed genuinely. “I know what that’s like.”

“You’ll see them again, soon,” Neville reassured her.

For a moment, the thought brought her some comfort. But after the Patronus faded, it felt like they’d left her all over again.


	18. **UPDATE, NOT A CHAPTER**

Hello, everyone-

I just wanted to give you all a heads-up that it will likely be a while before I can publish any more of this story. While I would love to be self-quarantined and have the opportunity to write and edit, unfortunately, I am a healthcare worker in an area that has been severely effected by COVID-19. I do appreciate having the job security right now, because I know that's been a serious problem for a lot of people. But it does mean that I am extremely overwhelmed with work right now, and don't have time to write. Who knows? Maybe I'll get COVID-19 myself (honestly, I probably will), and then you'll get TONS of story updates.

Anyway. Everyone stay safe out there, listen to CDC and WHO recommendations, and we'll all get through this together!

Sebastian


	19. Too Late for Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go down in glory.  
> What did I tell you? I promised they'd take me too.  
> Down with the heroes before me.  
> What did I tell you? I promised I'd give you a story.  
> Tell me a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to get these next few chapters published for the twins' birthday. Alas, life had other plans.

Ophelia was on her way to the Slytherin Common room when she noticed the commotion. A throng of people seemed to have bunched together in the corridor outside Umbridge’s office, held at bay by Ginny and Luna Lovegood.

“You can’t come down here!” Ginny was calling to the crowd. “No, sorry, you’re going to have to go around by the swiveling staircase, someone’s let off Garroting Gas just along here!”

Ophelia joined the gathering, mildly interested.

People were complaining, loudly. Someone shouted, “I can’t see any gas!”

“It’s _colorless_ ,” Ginny condescended, “But if you want to walk through it, carry on! Then we’ll have your body as proof for the next idiot who doesn’t believe us.”

Something was going on, of that she was certain. In Fred and George’s absence, there had been a surge of would-be pranksters and lower-year class clowns eager to fill their shoes. Pale imitations, in her opinion. So, a stunt like this wouldn’t necessarily be out of the question. But something wasn’t quite right about it all.

Ophelia ducked behind a nearby suit of armor and watched as the crowd thinned. The news about the Garroting Gas seemed to have spread back down the hallway, successfully deterring anyone else from coming down this way. When she was sure the coast was clear, she poked her head out from behind the suit of armor.

“They didn’t sell any Garroting Gas before they left!”

Ginny exhaled in shock and relief. “Oh my god, where have _you_ been?”

“Around,” she deflected, stepping over to join them.

“Oh, I’ve seen you before,” Luna acknowledged dreamily, “You’re Ophelia Lestrange.”

“And she’s on our side,” Ginny quickly added.

“Yes, of course. I should’ve known,” she nodded, “The way Fred and George pester you, all the time.”

The remark was bewildering, but Ophelia soldiered on. “Will you tell me what’s actually going on, please?”

“It’s a bit of an unlucky name, isn’t it?” Luna babbled serenely. “The Muggles have a story about a girl named Ophelia, and she—”

“Luna, _please_!” Ginny interrupted, “Harry thinks You-Know-Who is torturing Sirius in the Department of Mysteries.”

“ _What_?”

“He and Ron and Hermione are trying to get there using Umbridge’s fireplace.”

Ophelia blanched. “Oh my god.” With that, she hurried down the hall, towards the office.

When she burst into the room, the trio panicked. Ron tried to hex her.

“ _Expuls_ —”

“ _Protego_!”

The blast of her shield spell knocked him over backwards, and he dropped his wand.

“It’s _me_ , you idiot!”

“Bloody hell, Ophelia!” he snapped, scrambling to his feet again.

“Where have you been?” Harry fumed, poised before the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder, “Do you even know what’s happening?”

“Ginny and Luna told me. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Harry—”

“ _Whatever I’m thinking of doing_?” he sputtered, “HE HAS SIRIUS!”

“And how do you know that?” Ophelia asked calmly.

“I—” he seemed to falter, slightly, “I fell asleep during my O.W.L.s, and I saw it.”

Ophelia took a deep, stilling breath. “How is your Occlumency going?”

He shook his head in frustration, hands balled into tight fists. “DAMMIT, OPHELIA, SNAPE STOPPED TEACHING ME!”

“What?” she demanded, “When? I didn’t know about that! Why didn’t you say anything to me? I would’ve taught you _myself_ —”

“Well, you’d have known if you were _ever_ around anymore!” he snapped, “Where were you, the day they shut the DA down? When Umbridge sacked Hagrid? When she and Fudge ran Dumbledore off? WHEN MCGONAGALL—”

“There was nothing I could’ve done about all that!” she interrupted, frustration mounting. “I’m a bloody Death Eater, not the Minster of Magic!” Even still, she could not deny: he was right. After Fred and George left, she had all but disappeared. But that wasn’t fair of her to do. It had been gnawing away at her for months, now. _This_ is what she was meant to be doing, not running around in the castle walls with the twins.

“She’s here now, Harry,” Hermione said gently, easing him down, “And so I think you should listen to her.”

“I think he’s showing you what he wants you to see,” Ophelia insisted, “In fact, Harry, I can all but guarantee it.”

“Well, we’ll know in a minute. I’m going to Grimmauld Place to check if he’s there, and then—”

“THIEVES!!!”

Panic ensued. Umbridge had barged into the room, tailed by the Inquisitorial Squad. She took a handful of Harry’s hair, wrestling his wand from him and tossing it across the room. Draco nearly tackled Hermione, pinning her against the wall. And, to Ophelia’s great shock, Millicent Bulstrode descended upon her and wrapped her in a headlock.

“Unhand me at once!” she shouted, struggling wildly against the hold.

“Shut up, Lestrange,” she snarled.

The seven or so inches she had on Millie meant nothing in this position, not when those thick, hairy arms were wrapped around her neck.

“You think,” Umbridge spat, jerking Harry’s neck back at an extreme angle, “That after two Nifflers I was going to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after the last one got in, you foolish boy!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Ophelia demanded, “ _You unhand me at once_!”

“Silence!” Umbridge snapped, brandishing her wand towards her, “I’ll deal with you in a moment, you _traitorous_ little girl!” Once more, she rounded on Harry, shaking the fist clutching his hair. “I want to know why you are in my office!”

“I was trying to get my Firebolt!” Harry choked.

“Liar!” She shook his head again. “Your Firebolt is under strict guard in the dungeons, as you very well know, Potter. You were headed for my fire! With whom are you attempting to communicate?”

“No one!”

“ _Liar_!” she shrieked. She cast him away, and he stumbled sideways into her desk.

There was a commotion outside, and then several more Inquisitors entered, dragging with them Ginny, Luna, and for some bewildering reason, Neville. He was trapped in a stranglehold by Crabbe. All four of them had been gagged.

“Got ’em all,” Warrington announced, shoving them into the room. “Longbottom here tried to stop me taking _her_ ,” he pointed at Ginny, who was trying to kick her way free from Pansy, “So I brought him along too.”

“Good, good,” said Umbridge, watching Ginny struggle, “Well, it looks as though Hogwarts will shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy laughed loudly and sycophantically.

Self-satisfied, Umbridge settled herself into a chintz-covered armchair and surveyed her captives like a toad in a flowerbed.

“So, Potter,” she sneered, “You stationed lookouts around my office, and then broke in, rather clumsily, by the look of it. Even with help from her!” she thrust a puffy, pink-nailed finger towards Ophelia. “Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half-breed, Hagrid? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I hear she is still too ill to talk to anyone.”

Draco and a few of the other members of the Inquisitorial Squad laughed again. Cruel. Mocking. Ophelia found she was so full of rage and hatred, she was actually shaking.

“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” Harry snarled.

Umbridge’s slack face seemed to tighten.

“Very well,” she replied, in her most dangerous and falsely sweet voice. “Very well, Mr. Potter. I offered you the chance to tell me freely, and you refused. I have no alternative but to force you. Mr. Malfoy, fetch Professor Snape.”

Draco pocketed Harry and Hermione’s wands, and strode proudly from the room. He cast Ophelia a victorious smirk on his way by, and she had the sudden, visceral urge to spit at him. Luckily, she had the presence of mind to bite it back.

There was silence in the office except for the fidgeting and scuffling from the Inquisitors, as they fought to keep the D.A. under control. Ron’s lip was bleeding onto Umbridge’s carpet as he struggled against Goyle’s half-nelson. Ginny was still trying to stamp on Pansy’s feet, as she held both her upper arms in a tight grip. Neville’s face was turning more purple with each passing second, while he beat at Crabbe’s arms. Luna, however, stood limply by the side of her captor, gazing vaguely out of the window as though she were rather bored by the proceedings.

The realization hit Ophelia in a near-violent wave. No one had taken her wand. And her hands, save for the pointless way she’d been clawing and prying at Millie’s arms, were free. She felt the anxiety rise in her stomach, and momentarily asked herself, _am I really about to do this?_

But then she looked at Harry, at the desperate, defeated, impotently angry expression on his face, and her mind was made up. All she could do was hope he’d understand. She closed her eyes, steeled herself, and then spoke.

“You stupid, meddlesome old bitch,” she murmured.

Umbridge visibly bristled. “Excuse me?”

“I _said_ ,” she spat, “You’re a stupid, meddlesome old bitch!” All at once, she wrenched her wand from the pocket of her robes, pointed it back over her shoulder, and cried, “ _Aculeus_!”

Millicent howled in pain, dropping her as she clapped her hands over her own face. Umbridge leapt to her feet, while the rest of the Inquisitors released their captives and moved to advance. But Ophelia held her wand high.

“Get back!” she ordered them, “You know that _none_ of you could beat me in a duel, so don’t bother to try!”

Umbridge was sputtering in shock and disbelief. “And just what do you think you’re—?”

“SHUT UP!” Ophelia shouted, “Just shut your mouth! God, _all year_ , I’ve had to listen to your rubbish, and now you’ve finally done it, haven’t you? You’ve gone and ruined _everything_!”

Umbridge’s face was beginning to turn a deep red, her hand slowly moving for her wand.

Ophelia cast her a condescending look, and sent it spinning from her pocket. It clattered to the floor behind her desk, and Umbridge’s hands flew up in front of her chest, in a panicked, defensive gesture.

Harry attempted a confused, “Ophelia—” but she silenced him with a stern gaze before rounding on their Headmistress again.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” she spat, “Can you even comprehend the _years_ of work you’ve ruined? Look!”

In a moment of sheer boldness, Ophelia wrenched up the sleeve of her uniform and held her left forearm out for Umbridge to see. The snake and skull writhed in her skin, deep black. Umbridge recoiled in shock, stumbling back down into her chair again. Her mouth opened and closed in dumb silence, but Ophelia did not relent.

She advanced even further, bearing down, forcing her attention. “Look!” she insisted, “Do you understand? My agendas _supersede_ yours! And if you and darling Cornelius had been clever enough to just keep out of it, then Harry Potter would no longer be of any concern to you!”

“Ophelia!” Neville choked. The anger and betrayal on his face broke her heart. _You’ll understand soon_ , she silently implored. _I promise you._

She turned back to Umbridge, sneering down at her. “You’ve no inkling of what you’ve done.” With that, she turned, and made for the fireplace. She scooped up a handful of Floo powder, tossing half of it into the hearth. At once, the vibrant green flames roared to life.

“Ophelia!” It was Harry.

She rounded on him furiously, wand brandished. “You,” she seethed, “If you move an inch from that spot, I _swear_ , Potter…”

He blinked hard, looking her straight in the eye. Silently, she begged him not do to anything stupid.

With one final scowl at her Headmistress, she announced, “Malfoy Manor,” and stepped into the fire.

The house was empty, and eerily quiet. Good and bad, she thought. This way, she’d have no need to explain her sudden arrival. But if they weren’t here, then that meant…

She had no time to pause and catch her breath.

“Number 12, Grimmauld Place,” she said, tossing some more powder into the fire and stepping back in.

When she arrived, she stumbled frantically out of the fireplace and into the long kitchen. It was empty, save for one single creature.

“Kreacher!” she snapped, “Where’s Sirius?”

He dropped into a deep bow. “Mademoiselle Lestrange,” he croaked, before adding in an undertone, “What a pleasure it is, to have the filthy blood-traitor in our—”

“Enough of that! Where’s Sirius?”

“Kreacher is alone,” he finally answered, dipping even lower into his bow.

Ophelia sneered. “You’re a liar. SIRIUS!” she shouted, “REMUS! _SOMEONE_!”

At that, a stampede of footsteps sounded from the hall. Tonks, Mad-Eye, Remus, and yes, even Sirius, barreled into the room.

“Wotcher, O!” Tonks greeted, “What’s up? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

She did not return the greeting. “Harry had a dream that the Dark Lord is holding Sirius captive in the Department of Mysteries, because he _hasn’t_ been doing his Occlumency, and I think he’s going to try and get to the Ministry somehow, but I’m certain it’s a trap, _especially_ now, and _he won’t bloody listen to me!_ ” She exhaled it all on a single breath.

There was a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone began speaking at once. Sirius drew his wand, and began striding for the fireplace, but Tonks and Remus caught him by the shoulders. He struggled. Mad-Eye was screaming, no one was listening.

“BE QUIET!” Ophelia cried, and to her surprise, they actually fell silent. “Umbridge has shut down all the fireplaces in the castle, except for her own! Harry snuck into her office to try and get here, but we all got caught. I managed to talk my way out, and Severus is on his way there now, so I suppose he and I will just have to sort this out ourselves!”

“I’m going over there!” Sirius announced definitively.

“You’ll do no such thing!” Remus scolded, aghast.

“Then I’ll go to the bloody Department of Mysteries! If that’s where Voldemort—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Mad-Eye growled, “You’re staying right here, so _she_ doesn’t have to lie to Harry about where you are!”

“Think about what you’re saying, Sirius, _please_!” Ophelia implored, “For all we know, it could be as much a trap for you as it is for Harry!”

“Yes, yes, we understand,” Mad-Eye dismissed, “Get back there, and do your bloody job!”

She paid him no mind, instead striding over to her cousin. “Please, Sirius,” she implored, “Stay here!”

He looked away, shaking his head.

“ _Please_!” she begged, “Let Severus and I handle Harry! You _can’t_ go back to Azkaban, or even worse—”

“We get it!” Moody roared, “Go do your bloody job!”

“Fine!” she snapped, “For godssakes, keep Sirius _here_!” With that, she spun around, and stormed back through the fireplace.

The scene in Umbridge’s office seemed to have taken a very bizarre turn for the worse. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Neville were all gone. The Inquisitorial Squad was sprawled across the floor, moaning and writhing as they suffered the effects of what could only have been Skiving Snackbox delights.

Ophelia stormed over to Draco, who was rolling around on the floor, trying in vain to stem the fountain of blood pouring from his nose. “You _idiot_!” she shouted, punctuating with a hard kick to his ribs. “How could you _possibly_ have managed to let this go wrong? We _had_ them!”

He cringed away from her, whimpering a weak reply. “Weasley got the drop on us! Those— Those bloody stupid prank sweets!”

“Where’ve they gone?” she demanded, frustration mounting.

“I don’t _know_!” he wailed, “Snape arrived, and when he wouldn’t give Potter Veritaserum, Umbridge was going to use the _Cruciatus_ curse on him, but then _Granger_ said they’d— God, Ophelia, can’t you help me?”

“God damn you, Draco, _what did Granger say_?”

“She said they’d show her where their stupid secret weapon is, and then they left! The three of them left!”

She was wracking her brains, trying desperately to piece together what that could possibly mean. But Harry was right, she’d been away from them for too long. She had never even heard of any weapon.

Draco was still blubbering on the floor. “Ophelia, _please_!”

She brandished her wand down at him. “Where’s Severus?”

“He left, he left!”

“With Umbridge? With the others?”

“No! He went off on his own!”

She rolled her eyes, finally crouching and tearing his hands away from his face. With a silent wave of her wand, his nose was mended.

“Thank you,” he panted, “Thank you, thank you, I—”

“Oi!” Warrington hiccoughed, kneeling over a pool of his own vomit, “You’d better fix me, too!”

Ophelia stood, and strode for the door. “Go to hell, Cassius.”

She burst into Snape’s office without knocking, just in time to see the last wisps of silver fading from the tip of his wand.

“What was that?” she demanded, “Who did you signal? Where’s Harry?”

“Gone,” he replied curtly, taking a seat behind his desk.

She sputtered frantically. “What? What does that mean? Where are the others? Granger, Longbottom—”

“Turn around,” he interrupted, leafing idly through the massive tome on the table before him, “Step back outside, and knock before you enter my office.”

“WHAT?” she shouted, fingers tightening into a white-knuckle grip on her wand, “HAVE YOU GONE MAD? HOW CAN YOU—”

With a silent wave of his wand, he sent her sliding backwards. And, before she knew what was happening, the heavy door had slammed in her face.

“GOD DAMN YOU, SEVERUS!” She pounded her fist against the wood, but the door did not budge. “LET ME BACK IN!”

The lock clicked shut with resounding finality.

“GOD _DAMN_ YOU!” Coursing with impotent fury, Ophelia slumped against the opposite wall and slid down to the floor. Her wand arm was shaking violently, her mind racing. Perhaps it would be best to forsake Severus altogether, she thought. Go back up to Umbridge’s office, get back to Grimmauld Place, and do… Something. Maybe she ought to skip that step entirely, and go straight to the Ministry. Maybe she’d be able to lead the Death Eaters on a false chase, and give Harry time to find what he needed to find and then leave before they could capture him.

The lock on Snape’s door gave another click, startling her back to awareness. She stood, taking a deep stilling breath, and reached out to knock on the door. It swung serenely open, as though nothing important were happening at all, and she stepped back into the small, cramped space.

“Sit,” he commanded, and she did as she was told. “I have sent word to the Order.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a stern and terrifying glare.

“Potter and his friends have indeed gone to the Ministry of Magic, in search of Sirius Black.”

“He’s not there!” she finally succeeded in interrupting.

“I know that!” he snapped, “Long have I foreseen the laying of this trap, and long have I urged the Order to act. Yet again, they seem to have underestimated Potter’s uncanny ability to slip _every_ protection, break _every_ rule, defy _every_ restriction put into place for his own protection!”

All at once, it seemed to Ophelia as though the walls of the dungeon were closing in around her. The dark, damp space seemed to darken even further, gleaming potion bottles folding in over her like an icy cage. Her hands were shaking, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she ought to pocket her wand, lest she cast some spell accidentally. But she could not let it go. She needed to hold it.

“It’s _your_ fault,” she muttered madly, her vision beginning to distort, “You stopped teaching him Occlumency, you stopped teaching him, and then he—”

“What did you say to me?” he whispered, eyes flinty and crackling with fury.

Ophelia blinked hard. “We have to go. Right now, we have to get to the Ministry and help them.”

His negation was swift and stern. “No.”

“What?” she nearly moaned, “ _Why_?”

“This will not end today,” he impressed, “In fact, the war is only now beginning. You and I have a purpose yet to serve, beyond the events of this night.”

She could hear no more. “I’m going,” she announced definitively, rising to her feet.

“Ah, yes! Another brilliant plan, from another _arrogant_ child!” he called after her as she strode for the door, “Go on, and get yourself thrown into Azkaban alongside your _heroic_ father!”

She paid him no mind.

“Perhaps the Ministry will someday come to their senses, and rename it Château Lestrange! Every single one of you will come to rot behind those walls, in the end!”

At that, she finally paused. She could feel her heartbeat pulsing through to each of her fingertips, feel it pounding distractingly behind her eyes. Her grip tightened on the door handle, and it occurred to her that her hands were still shaking. Her hands never shook, she realized. Not when she was speaking with the Dark Lord, not when she was lying to her father, or listening to Bellatrix brag about the Longbottoms. But they were shaking now. It was a thing she could neither name nor comprehend.

“Sit down,” Snape commanded.

Though she did not quite understand why, she did as she was told. She fell back to the chair in a graceless heap, equal parts weary and frustrated.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, still gripping her wand tightly.

“We are going to sit here, in this room, until we receive word of the outcome.”

Her heart plummeted. “What about Draco?”

He sneered. “What an inane comment.”

She wanted to argue. But, all at once, she seemed to have been drained of her will to fight him.

He was right. Never in her life had she harbored more hatred or resentment for him than in that precise moment, but she could not deny: he was right.

A deep weariness seemed to have settled into her marrow, and she sank further into her chair. The shaking was beginning to abate, and she realized that her muscles were aching.

“Count yourself lucky,” Snape murmured bitterly, “For the ones you _really_ love are nowhere near it.”

“Not yet,” she replied.

He nodded in tragic confirmation, “Not yet.”

Ophelia only realized that she had drifted off when the Patronus soared through the wall of the dungeon, tearing her from light sleep. It was a proud, prowling lynx, speaking in the voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

_“Voldemort has been witnessed publicly by the Minister of Magic. Driven off by Dumbledore. Bellatrix Lestrange has fled, all other Death Eaters captured. Sirius Black is dead. All others alive.”_

The sound that tore from Ophelia’s throat expressed a pain the likes of which neither flame nor curse could inflict. She was sinking fast, into the blackness. The floor was rising up to meet her. And before she knew what was happening, Snape was upon her. His arms wrapped around her like a vise, trying to force some stillness into her as she wailed and thrashed. He took her wand from her, tossing it across the room and out of her reach.

“I told you!” she sobbed, rocking back and forth in his grasp, “I told you! _I told you! I told you! I told you!”_

Though she did not notice it, Snape was murmuring quiet apologies.


	20. Disenchanted

By the time the last week of school was upon her, it felt to Ophelia as though centuries had passed. She had lived a lifetime in Snape’s office, the night of the battle in the Department of Mysteries, and she had lived a lifetime since. But, at last, it was drawing to a close.

Alone in her dormitory, she knelt beside her bed and packed frantically, shoving things into her trunk with an uncharacteristic carelessness. She’d send the bulk of it back with the Elves, and then, finally of age, she’d Apparate straight to 93 Diagon Alley. That was her plan, and she’d decided that it was a good one. She could bear to be apart from them no longer.

“ _Freddie_!” Mischief screeched, from atop her four-poster bed, “ _Orange! Freddie Orange_!”

She shushed him insistently, thankful that they were alone. “What have I told you about that?”

He just mocked, “ _What have I told you about that_?”

Just then, Katie came stomping into the room, in a huff. “Lestrange.”

Ophelia paused her work, turning placidly towards her. “What?”

“Snape is in the Common Room, and he says Dumbledore wants to see you.”

She rose to her feet with characteristic grace, pointing a stern finger at the raven. “Stay.”

“ _Stay_ ,” he repeated.

“Good boy.” With that, she pushed past the intruder to make her way downstairs. As she walked by, she caught the briefest whisper.

“You’re welcome, your Highness _…_ ”

Ophelia paused, glancing over her shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing.”

On cue, Mischief screeched, “ _You’re welcome, your Highness_!”

Ophelia turned. Though she was a stairstep below the girl, she was still taller. “I asked you,” she repeated, looking straight into her eyes, “ _What_?”

Katie shrank back, averting her gaze. “Nothing.”

After a beat, Ophelia hissed, “That’s right. _Nothing_.”

With that, she turned, and made for the Headmaster’s office.

Dumbledore was waiting for her, seated calmly behind his desk. But he stood when she entered.

“Madame Lestrange,” he greeted warmly, gesturing for the chair across from him, “Please.”

She did as he instructed, a little unsure of how to begin. “Are…” she hesitated for a moment, “Are you alright, Professor?”

He sank back into his chair, dismissing the remark with a confident wave of his hand. “My dear girl, I am fine. How have you fared, these recent months?”

Her gaze drifted off, over his shoulder, and he watched as the sadness seemed to sap the youth from her face. Strangely, she thought to tell him about the Vanishing Cabinet, but found it too humiliating an admission. Another time, perhaps, she decided.

After a small span of silence, Dumbledore spoke again. “I find it most regrettable that I was absent for the grand exit of the Weasley Twins _._ Their _piece de résistance,_ shall we say _.”_

She forced a smile, trying not to focus on precisely how many hours, minutes, and seconds still stood between her and them.

“I’m told it was a spectacle of some magnificence.”

She nodded glumly. “I suppose it was.”

“And not without participation from our resident spy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched with a forced smile.

“I think I shall have to pay a visit to Number 93, myself,” he mused aloud, “And purchase my own Weasley Deflagration Deluxe.”

At that, she finally smiled.

“Perhaps I could persuade them to craft a bespoke piece, for me, to spell out the profanity of my choosing.”

Finally, she laughed, and he was glad to see it. But the spark of joy was short-lived, and soon, her sadness had returned.

“I did everything I could, Professor.”

He nodded. “I know. And you did beautifully, my dear.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

“No,” he exhaled, shaking his head bitterly, “The failure was mine, Ophelia. I cared more for Harry’s happiness than for his knowing the truth, more for his peace of mind than my plan, more for his life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted precisely as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act.”

It was a hard thing to hear, and she couldn’t help but draw such damning comparisons. _We fools who love_. If ever it came down to it, and it was so frighteningly likely that such a thing would come to pass, would she be able to choose the greater good over the men she loved so dearly? The men for whom she began fighting, in the first place? Perhaps not, she fretted. Perhaps she, too, was blinded by love. Weakened by it, rather than strengthened.

She would take these words as a warning, whether that had been his intent or not.

“I begged him not to go,” she murmured softly, realizing at once that she meant both Harry and Sirius.

Dumbledore nodded. “I know you did. And that is all we can do.”

She turned away again, unsatisfied by that answer.

He stood, then, beginning to pace his way around the office. Tracing those footprints she’d seen on the Marauder’s Map more times than she could count.

She thought to weep. To let the guilt and anger come pouring from her like so much poison, that perhaps she could be free of it. But, try as she might, it would not come. There was none of her left to give.

“Another year, gone,” Dumbledore breathed, and then a funny little smile crossed his features. “You know, I was pouring through the House Points record, last night, hoping to glean some picture of the comings and goings during my absence, and took note of the strangest trend.”

She swallowed hard, a knot of anxiety suddenly twisting in her stomach.

He looked down upon her with that telltale glimmer in his blue eyes. “I was unware, Madame Lestrange, that one could be awarded House Points for their performance, in shall we say, _unsanctioned extracurricular activities_.”

“You can’t take House points away from people for being Muggle-born, either, but that’s what Draco did, all year!” she quickly defended, “He took points from Hermione Granger, every chance he got, just because of her Blood status! I once saw him take points from Ron Weasley because he didn’t like his face! Not to mention how he tortured Neville. And Pansy Parkinson had it out for the twins, Professor, I swear, she—”

He chuckled softly, holding up a hand to silence her. “Relax, my dear,” he coaxed, “Relax. I did not call you here for punishment. As I said, you’ve done beautifully.”

Her face went a deep shade of red, and she squirmed in her seat. “It was… _Inappropriate_ , I acknowledge that. But the rest of them, and what they were doing, there has to be some law—”

“I have spoken with the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad,” he interrupted, “And written many letters to many parents. In addition, I have reprimanded Professor Snape most severely, in regards to his judgement in Prefect appointments.”

“I did what I had to do,” she murmured, unsure of who she was trying to convince: Dumbledore, or herself. “You always say that love is the greatest weapon we could ever hope to wield against hate, and—”

He laughed genuinely, and Ophelia instantly regretted saying it. “A most literal interpretation of the philosophy. You are a Slytherin, indeed.”

“I did what I had to do,” she insisted, more than a little defensive and indignant.

Dumbledore face warmed with kind understanding. “I know, my dear. Believe me when I say that, I myself, am no stranger to the proverbial _forbidden love_.”

Ophelia looked up at him imploringly, hoping for more. Alas, the secret remained locked behind those twinkling eyes.

She sighed deeply, sinking lower into her chair. “Snape says this is only the beginning.” The words had sprung from her chest before she could stop it. Saying them aloud made her stomach knot with dread.

Dumbledore’s heart sank to have returned to the subject. But he could see in her face the gnawing need to voice it. “He is correct.”

“My family is back in Azkaban now, but…” She swallowed hard. “But they won’t stay there.”

“No,” he agreed, “I don’t imagine they will.”

“Then we have to keep going.”

He exhaled sadly, nodding head in slow, somber confirmation. “Yes. We do. Times like these, Madame Lestrange, we must not sink beneath our anguish, but battle on. The pain you feel now is a part of being human. The very fact that you can feel pain like this is, perhaps, your greatest strength.”

“I don’t want it,” she nearly begged.

“To numb the pain now will only make it worse when you finally feel it,” he coaxed, “Let it in. Let it galvanize you. Let it remind you of what we are fighting for.”

“For love,” she announced, looking up into his eyes.

“Yes,” he smiled, “For love.”


	21. All Tangled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can name the song that Fred references (to George's dismay and Ophelia's delight), you'll be my best friend forever

It had been a banner day for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The Hogwarts Express had rolled into King’s Cross Station around 1:00 in the afternoon, and the shop had been packed until closing. Overnight, it seemed, Fred and George had become folk heroes. They’d lost track of the number of times they’d been regaled with the story of their own escape, or of Umbridge’s eventual fate.

It was nearly an hour past their posted closing time when they had finally managed to empty the store of eager customers. Making his final rounds through the shop, George took note of a single, remaining figure. Someone was lingering in a well-sheltered corner, by the display of Wonder Witch products. Tall, cloaked in black.

“Oi!” he called out, “We appreciate the enthusiasm, but we’ve closed! And you’d better not be trying to nick stuff!”

Slowly, the figure turned. He could see it was a woman, and she was holding a bottle of Heartbreak Teardrops.

“Do these really work?” she asked, examining the bottle, “My lovers have run out on me.”

His face lit up. _I know that voice._

She pushed back the hood of her cloak, and there she was: Ophelia Belladonna Yaxley-Lestrange. The love of his life, standing in his shop. She was radiant.

He flung his arms wide, screaming in sheer delight. She ran to him, leaping into his arms, and into his kiss. He lifted her off her feet, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“I missed you… _So_ much…” she told him, between kisses, “The shop… Looks… _Wonderful_!”

He squeezed her so tight, she could hardly breathe. But she was the only thing he had been really and truly craving since they left school. His one regret. And she was finally, finally here.

“Bloody _hell_ , George,” came Fred’s voice, “They’re _pygmy puffs_ , you don’t— _AHH, THERE SHE IS_!!!”

George set her down, and she ran to him. But when she reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, he winced, recoiling from her in a dramatic display of pain.

“Ooh, ow! No, hang on, that still hurts a bit,” he whined, taking a defensive step back.

“Oh, you poor, _delicate_ little thing, you…” she condescended, taking him by the necktie and dragging him into a kiss.

He laughed lustily, pressing his nose against hers. “I’ll show you who’s delicate.”

“I’m sorry I hit you, Freddie,” she giggled, “Truly.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, “That was the most fun I’ve had all year. Is that what spying’s like?”

She shook her head, laughing. “No, that sort of thing is relatively uncommon.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed.

“You’ll be pleased to know you made a _fantastic_ martyr of me with that little stunt,” she complained, “No one left me alone about it for the rest of the year.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, I bet you hated that.”

“I did!” she insisted, “Don’t be nasty!”

“You wanna talk about nasty, you should hear the names he’s been calling you to people all day,” George divulged, a touch of cruel delight in his voice.

She gaped up at him. “That had better not be true, Fred Weasley!”

He gave her a sheepish shrug, color rising to his freckled cheeks.

“I heard him tell a little Gryffindor kid that you tasted like Draco Malfoy’s—”

“That’s enough of that,” he interrupted, chuckling nervously.

She swatted him on the chest. “You’re such a _wanker_ , Fred!” When she wound up to hit him again, he caught her by the wrist.

“Don’t you start in with that, now,” he heeded, yanking her closer, “Are you trying to wind me up?”

She giggled. “Maybe I am. What are you going to do about it?”

“Alright, settle down,” George urged, trying to shove the two of them apart.

“No, you’re gonna stay right here, where I can keep an eye on you,” Fred commanded, wrapping his arms around her from behind and holding her to his chest.

She hung her hands from his wrists, leaning back against him. “Anyway, you’re all anyone at school’s been talking about,” she said, looking between them.

They sighed. “ _We know_.”

“There’s a saying, now, people talk about _pulling a Weasley_!”

“ _We know.”_

“And Umbridge, _god_! You should’ve seen what Harry and Hermione—”

Fred interrupted, “Ophelia—”

“—We know.”

“We’ve only heard that from, what d’you reckon, Georgie?”

“Oh, about 394 of our closest friends.”

“ _Well_ ,” she challenged, “I bet you didn’t hear about me _pulling rank_ on old Toad Face, did you?”

Their faces broke into wide grins. “ _No_!”

“ _Oh_!” she gloated, “So you _don’t_ know everything in the world, after all! My mistake, then!”

“Ophelia, I’m about ready to start telling you what’s what, if you don’t knock it off!” Fred threatened, digging his fingers into her ribs.

She laughed, squirming away. “Alright, come on, then,” she took them each by the hand, “I want to see this entire place, every inch—”

“ _Oh, you’re gonna get every inch!”_

“—and _then_ ,” she giggled, jostling them playfully, “I’ll tell you all about it!”

They set about giving her the full tour of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes; from the Skiving Snackboxes to the Reusable Hangmen. Every corner of the place seemed to be hiding some new fascination, and it thrilled her beyond description. They showed her the Edible Dark Marks; modeled, of course, after the only one they’d ever seen: hers. They joked that, after the stunt she and Fred had pulled at Hogwarts, they ought to advertise them with her name on them, to drive up sales. She told them, in no uncertain terms, that they were _not_ to do that.

She was especially captivated by their line of Muggle magic tricks, which they ordered from a small shop in Ottery St. Catchpole. George performed such entertaining feats as drawing a card he’d never seen before from a shuffled deck, or making a bouquet of flowers appear out of thin air, all using only Muggle trickery. It was endlessly entertaining, and she couldn’t, for the life of her, work out how he’d done it. She was most impressed, however, when he made the entire deck of cards disappear entirely. (What she hadn’t noticed, then, was Fred holding his wand behind his back.)

She showered them with praise and congratulations, so far beyond thrilled with their success. It was a proud moment, for the twins. Hers was the smile they’d craved since the beginning, and to see it now was so fantastically satisfying.

Not as satisfying, however, as when they locked the doors, closed the shutters, and fucked her senseless atop the front counter. Nothing could quite compare to that.

“ _Oh, it's meetings a pleasure and it's parting's a grief,_

_And an unconstant lover is worse not a thief.”_

Fred nudged at her. “Hey!”

George kicked him. “Shut up.”

With a wry smile, she soldiered on, voice coming high and clear as she sang to them. _“For the thief he will rob you and just steal what you have,_

_But an unconstant lover will follow you to your grave.”_

“You’re damn right, I will!”

“Shut _up_ , Fred!”

The night was deep and dark, but they had all the warmth and light they needed in each other. They’d done virtually nothing but make love since she arrived. First in the shop, and then in the flat above. On the couch, in the bed. They hadn’t even eaten dinner. But it seemed they’d finally managed to wear themselves out. So, they had settled comfortably into this glowing, languid heap. Ophelia was reclined back against the headboard, George to her left. He had an arm slung over her shoulders, keeping her close. Fred was leaning back against her raised knees, fiddling idly with her hand as it lay across his leg.

“ _Oh, they'll buy you fine trinkets, fine garments and flowers_ ,” she sang, lingering deliciously on all of the grace notes and embellishments,

“ _And they'll call in at tea-time to pay their devours._

_They'll swear that they love you by the light of the moon,_

_And propose…_ Marriage _?”_ She paused, cocking an eyebrow.

“No _,”_ she finished, with a smile, _“Sherry cobblers at Taylor's Saloon_.”

The twins laughed heartily, collapsing in on her.

“ _Ah, but when you are married look out for your heart,_

_'Cause evenings he’ll spend at the old fellows' club._

_At the office or store he was kept, he'll pretend,_

_And so, he was too, drinking rum with a friend.”_

George shook his head. “No, not without you.”

“Yeah, you’re well fun, in a pub.”

 _“But fortunes are false and a fickle young jade,”_ she continued,

_“And it's worse than bad luck for to die an old maid._

_And the best of all blessings we can meet in this life,_

_Is a kind, loving husband, and a good-tempered wife.”_

“What, only one?” Fred needled.

“Yeah, and you’re nowhere near good-tempered,” George added.

She laughed. “Alright then, how about this: _The best of all blessings we can meet in this life, are two kind, loving husbands, and a criminal wife_.”

They erupted into satisfied laughter, applauding the revised ending.

“That’s a new one,” Fred observed, “I rather like it.”

“You ought to, I think it was written about you!” she teased, looking between them, “You’re just the type to let me die an old maid, as well.”

“ _Never_!”

“We’ll make an honest woman out of you, yet, and then you can be the stock girl, downstairs,” Fred stated, rather definitively.

“Knock off early to make us dinner, of an evening.”

“Tidy the flat with no clothes on.”

“Yeah, you’ll be a proper wife.”

“I’ll be no such thing,” she argued, “You know I can’t cook _or_ clean. And you can’t marry two people, anyway, so I suppose you’ll just have to duel each other to the death, for the honor.”

“ _I’d win_ ,” they replied in unison, before exchanging combative glares. “ _No,_ I _would_.”

“Well, then, we won’t get married,” she conceded, “No real reason, anyway, is there? We can just carry on doing... Whatever this is we’re doing to each other.”

George chuckled, fiddling with her hands, “Some sort of a… Dodgy… Crowded…”

“Meat triangle,” Fred finished for him.

George exclaimed in wordless disgust, shoving his cackling brother away with a foot to his head. But Ophelia gasped in shock and delight, as Fred launched himself back across the bed towards George.

“Where on earth did you pick that up?” she laughed, sliding out of the way of their wrestling, “You’ve never heard that song in your _life_ , Fred Fabian!”

“Oi, I bought you that album!” he argued childishly, holding George at bay by the neck, “You’re not the music police, _Ophelia Belladonna_!”

“He’s been trying out your spooky Muggle bands,” George revealed, finally extricating himself, “Says he wants to get in your mindset.”

“Is that so?” she giggled, “And how’s that been going?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, “But I meant to ask, d’you reckon I could have a lend of that corset?”

She laughed, crawling over to kiss him. “You can have whatever of mine you fancy, my darling.”

“Oh, yeah?” he taunted, falling back onto the bed.

She took his hand, and began tracing his fingertips along her lips. “Anything,” she whispered, looking deep into his eyes.

“Christ, how are you two still _going_?” George crowed, “I’m _knackered_!”

“Oh, you’re no fun anymore!” his brother laughed, wrapping Ophelia in his arms and tugging her down on top of him. They’d just have to see how _knackered_ George really was.

The following morning, George awoke to find himself alone in the bed. His heart immediately sank, and he almost called out for Fred and O. And then he heard their voices from the sitting room.

“Don’t be such a weasel, Fred, put your back into it.”

Fred laughed ruefully. “You dunno what you’re asking me, Lestrange.”

“I do!” she giggled, “ _You_ don’t know what I can _take_!”

As amusing as it was to listen to, curiosity was getting the better of him. He couldn’t even imagine what they were up to, out there, and he was desperate to find out. So, he rose and stretched, flinging his dressing gown over his shoulders as he stepped into the sitting room.

Ophelia was standing with her hands braced against the back of the couch, and Fred was a few feet behind her, yanking rather haphazardly at her corset laces.

“What’re you kids up to, in here?” he chuckled, rubbing his eyes.

“Gardening club,” Fred announced, giving another hard tug, “What’s it look like?”

“Don’t make me laugh!” she begged, clutching at her waist.

“You’re gonna break her in half,” George cautioned, sitting down on the couch and craning up to kiss her.

“I am not gonna break her in half,” he mocked, putting the loose ends of the cords between his teeth and digging his fingers into the bottom laces.

She made a sound like she’d been punched in the stomach when he cinched them down.

“He’s better at this than you are, Georgie,” Ophelia teased, exhaling deeply as the steel bones clamped in around her waist.

“That’s ‘cause he’s meaner than I am,” George pointed out.

“Yeah, I’m a _brute_.” Fred punctuated with one last sharp tug on her laces.

Ophelia let out a long, pained laugh, maintaining her white-knuckle grip on the back of the couch. “Oh, you _animal_!”

“Fred, you’re gonna kill her,” George scolded.

“No, he’s not,” she panted, “But tie me off, now, darling, will you?”

Fred giggled, giving the laces a few threatening jerks. “Say ‘uncle’.”

“Get…” she heaved a deep, stilling breath, “ _Fucked_!”

“Yeah, I might do,” he teased, tying the laces up neatly, “Why, you offering?”

She giggled. “Always.”

Fred stepped back, beaming. He was always rather proud of himself when he laced her up properly. And he especially liked being told he was better at something than Georgie, who had always seemed like her favorite.

She turned to face him, clutching at her waist. “Fine work, Weasley,” she praised, still breathing heavily, “Some of the most _vicious_ tightlacing I’ve ever—Ever— _Oh_ —” All at once, her eyes rolled back, her arms went limp, and she collapsed forward onto Fred.

“Oh, fuck!” He caught her, luckily, and he looked down at her unconscious form in abject horror. “Fuck, George, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

“ _I only bloody told you_!” George shouted, launching himself over the back of the couch, “You’ve gone and made it too tight, and she’s bloody _passed out_ , now, hasn’t she?”

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck_.” Fred frantically lowered her to the floor, kneeling beside her. His shaking hands hovered above her as he tried to justify, “But _she_ said—!!”

“I don’t give a _toss_ what she said!” George was beginning to panic, turning her over to examine the laces. “We need to get this thing off her. Where’s that bleeding knife of hers?”

“Oh, she’s got it here, hang on—” Fred rudely yanked her skirt up, scrambling for the dagger on her thigh.

“NO!” she suddenly yelped, and her hand shot out to catch him by the wrist. “It’s a blag! It’s a blag!”

They both leapt back in shock. “ _Bloody hell_!”

“If you _ever_ take a knife to this corset, Fred Fabian Weasley, and I will _end your life_! You _know_ this is my favorite!”

The twins groaned, equal parts frustrated and relieved.

“ _Christ_ , Ophelia!” George scolded, slumping back against the couch, clutching at his forehead, “God, that nearly did me.”

Fred jerked his arm from her grip, and sprawled out on the floor, heart still racing from the panic.

“That was a _good_ one, wasn’t it?” she congratulated herself, sitting up, “I think I rather _had_ you!”

“You’re a ruddy nightmare!” Fred scolded, giving her a hard shove, “I thought I killed you!”

She crawled over to press a kiss to his mouth. “Mmm, taste your own medicine, my darling, and despair.”

“Oi!” Giggling, George wrapped a hand around her ankle, and yanked her across the floor towards him. “I’ll do you for that one, Lestrange!”

She suddenly hissed in pain, squirming away from them.

“Oh, ha ha, bloody _ha_ ,” he sneered, scrambling to grab hold of her again, “You’re not gonna get us again _that_ quick.”

She shook her head, frantically clutching her forearm to her chest and waving him off.

“ _What are you on about_?”

“No, I’m not joking this time,” she impressed. Her face had suddenly gone pale and fearful, and she was avoiding making eye contact with either of them. “I’m sorry, I… I have to go.”

Fred’s frustration was immediate, and obvious. “What, right now?”

“Yes. Right now.”

The twins didn’t know what to say. How to react. So, they just watched in silence as she scrambled to her feet. Uncharacteristically graceless. She strode across the room, snatching her cloak from the hook by the door and flinging it over her shoulders.

“Are you on the Floo network, yet?”

“ _Not yet_.”

“Never mind, then,” she dismissed, returning to the bedroom to gather her wand. All at once, the bold, romantic gesture she’d made by coming straight here off the train seemed… Careless. Dangerous.

Selfish, and stupid.

_Just like you._

“Is…” George hesitated, “Is he… Calling you?”

She bent to kiss them twice each, back and forth. “Yes.”

She caught sight of them exchanging uncertain glances.

“This is my life, darlings,” she murmured softly, running a hand down each of their cheeks in turn, “But I promise you, I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”

They nodded solemnly.

“Tell me you love me anyway,” she coaxed.

“ _We love you anyway_.”

With one, final, warm smile, she rose to her feet. And, with a resounding _CRACK_ , she was gone.


	22. The Way Out Is Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so, so sorry for the massive publishing gap. Working in healthcare right now is more stressful and overwhelming than I could even remotely begin to describe to you. But Jack is back, and I've got a few chapters ready.

When she arrived at Malfoy Manor, the fear truly sank into her bones. He was waiting for her, in the wing-backed chair she usually occupied. He looked weak. Exhausted.

“Beautiful girl,” he hissed, watching as she fell to her knees before him, “Look at what has become of us.”

“My Lord?” she quivered, eyes respectfully downcast.

“Severus, Bellatrix, Wormtail…” he sighed, “And Ophelia. You… Are all that I have left.”

She blinked hard.

“Look at me.”

Finally, she met his gaze. His skin was dull and ashen, his eyes seeming to have lost some of their sinister shine. “They’ll escape again, my Lord,” she tentatively offered, “Already, they hold the favor of the Dementors. It is only a matter of time.”

Voldemort nodded tiredly.

“And you have the Malfoys,” she added.

“Yes. Narcissa, the _simpering_...” a bolt of fury crackled across his face, fading as quickly as it had come, “And little Draco.”

All at once, her heart ached with fear for her cousin. But she did not have time to dwell on it. She could feel Voldemort pushing his way into her mind, sifting through her memories as though it were the most natural, automatic thing in the world.

“Where have you been, my child?” he asked, offering no acknowledgement of his invasion.

“With the Weasley boys.”

His voice seemed to regain some of it’s terrifying strength as he insisted, “Call them what they are, Ophelia, they’re _your_ boys.”

She bowed her head once more. “Yes,” she quietly confirmed, “Yes, my Lord. _My_ boys.”

“You have come to desire them so, haven’t you?” he crooned, and she could hear a hint of something like mocking sympathy in his voice.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Poor little dear,” he breathed, running a hand over her hair, “Just like our Severus, aren’t you?”

Her heart picked up a beat. “My Lord?”

He laughed; a cold, high, thin sound, like a winter wind rattling through bare trees. “Off with you,” he dismissed, pushing her away, “Go to your _Château,_ and await my next command. Our dear Bellatrix will need you, now.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she acquiesced, dropping into a deep curtsey before turning away.

“Ophelia, my sweet?” he called after her.

She turned back. “Yes, my Lord?”

“Have a look in the dungeon, before you go,” he commanded, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyes fall shut, “Your father brought us a lovely gift from Diagon Alley, before his untimely capture.”

When Ophelia Apparated onto the front drive of Château Lestrange, she was immediately disturbed to find the front door ajar. It sent a strange bolt of panic through her chest, though she did not understand why. It shouldn’t matter, if someone had broken in and slain Bellatrix where she stood. And yet… And yet…

She ascended the stairs cautiously, looking for any sign of forced entry. Was forced entry even possible, to such a fortress? Surely not. And then she heard it.

“Nothing, nowhere… No one at all... Radiate, _recognize_! Mmm… SILENT CALL! We all form _ONE DARK FLAME_!”

The words were slurred, hanging heavy with alcohol and god knows what else, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Nnn _CINERATE_! Fuck… Fuck, fuck…”

Bellatrix.

At once, Ophelia’s panic melted into cold fury. She stormed inside, slamming the heavy iron doors behind her with a flourish of her wand. The sharp percussion of shattering glass sounded from the room ahead, Bellatrix laughed weakly. When Ophelia rounded the corner, the scene was precisely as she’d expected. Her aunt was sprawled across the tabletop, clutching a bottle of wine. That it was nearly empty was her saving grace; the way she was holding it to her chest would’ve sent it pouring down across her neck. Innumerable empty bottles lay scattered about the room, including the remains of the one she’d heard shatter.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Ophelia snapped, causing Bellatrix to start in surprise.

“Where have _you_ been hiding?” she slurred, “Off with Severus, were you? While the rest of us did all the work?”

Ophelia paid no mind to the remark. “The front doors were _open_ when I arrived, did you know that?”

She scoffed.

“Are you trying to get us both killed?”

Bellatrix flung her wine bottle across the room, where it shattered against the wall, just to the left of her niece’s head. Ophelia jumped.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded.

Her aunt seemed to be making a sloppy effort to sit up. “Oh, shut _up_!”

Ophelia was near disgust. “Pull yourself together! My god—”

Before she could finish, her aunt had drawn her wand and sent a crackling, red curse whipping through the air towards her. Ophelia deflected it effortlessly, as though brushing a cobweb from her path. It did little more than exasperate her.

“I’m not going to waste my time dueling with a drunken old woman!” she shouted, brandishing her wand towards her.

For a moment, the pair were locked in a smoldering, dead heat, facing one another down. One heartbeat, then two, then three. And then Bellatrix laughed; her rude, distinctive cackle echoing off the walls of the empty house.

“Drunken old woman!” she shrieked, summoning another wine bottle from god knows where, “Drunken old woman, that’s a good one. You ought to tell that to Dolph, when he… When…”

Ophelia was fuming. “He _won’t_ get out unless _we_ continue the work in his stead!”

“Oh, _shut up_!” she roared, “Just shut up! Continue the work, continue the work,” she mocked, “Who do you think _started_ the work? I was doing this for _decades_ before you… Before… Before _Dolph_ shot you into his hand, and left Bastan to father you himself, I—”

Ophelia brandished her wand higher, color rising hot on her cheeks. “Don’t you talk like that!”

“Ella Yaxley, that’s all I ever heard from either of them, bloody Ella Yaxley, _Ella Yaxley!_ With her golden hair, and her perfect face, and now _you_! You, you come in here, think you can tell me what to do, and—”

" _I told you not to talk like that!”_

Bellatrix whipped around to face her. “I’ll talk however I want! While you and Severus were holed up in your little dungeon, I was _killing Sirius Black_!”

The bile rose in Ophelia’s throat, almost too quickly for her to stop it. Thankfully, Bellatrix turned back to her wine, unaware of how pale her niece had suddenly become.

“I did it,” she crooned to her bottle, “It was me. Most loyal, most devoted, I killed Sirius Black.”

It came on slowly, for Ophelia, building in her chest in the spaces between heartbeats. And then it hit all at once. The Château seemed to be closing in on her; the palatial walls tightening and constricting like the jaws of some deadly trap. Her heart was racing, the air stinging her throat, her nostrils, fighting her every effort to breathe.

“ _I killed Sirius Black_!”

She wondered what her cousin had looked like, at the end. Had he been afraid? Had he seen the endless darkness coming, or had it happened before he could brace for it?

Had Harry been watching?

She began backing away, nearly stumbling in her haste.

“ _I KILLED SIRIUS BLACK!!”_

Ophelia wanted to run. Out of this house, out of this world, into a different _life_ , but there was nowhere to run to. No way to escape the crushing reality that this was all she had. Her chest was tight, _so tight_ , and each beat of her heart was so very painful. The world was a trap, her _skin_ was a trap. She fled from Château Lestrange, and did not look back.

She walked in a straight line from the front doors, murmuring a soft chant of, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, _I can’t_ ,” to the beat of her right foot.

She walked past fields and forests and distant manors and hamlets. She walked until her knees creaked and her feet ached in their ridiculous, high-heeled boots. If people saw, she didn’t care. She walked until the sun hung low in the sky and the air turned cold. Panting, desperate. And, for the first _real_ time, so, so afraid.

Her eyes stung with tears, and the tracks seemed to turn to ice in the heightening, evening wind.

She would’ve walked off the edge of the island, if she’d been able to.

Finally, after what could’ve been hours or minutes, she stopped. Chest still heaving, and no calmer for it. The sun was gone, and the stars beginning to appear overhear. She turned her eyes skyward, blinking in surprise.

 _Ophiuchus_ , she thought vaguely, and mad laughter bubbled up from her chest. _Ophiuchus, the serpent-bearer._ After a minute or so, her laughter transformed into heaving, breathless sobs, and then agonized screams.

By the time she was through, her vocal cords had been rendered a fiery, soundless ruin.

“Nowhere to run,” she murmured hoarsely, massaging at her throat. “Nowhere… To…”

With that, she turned on the spot, and Disapparated.

Ophelia re-appeared on the wide, green expanse that stretched out from The Burrow. There was a light on in the kitchen, but the rest of the windows were dark. The front door opened as she approached the house, and she could see Mr. Weasley’s silhouette in the doorway.

“Who’s there?” he called out, wand brandished towards her.

She did not answer. She couldn’t. And all she could do was walk. Towards the light, towards the warmth.

“Dammit,” he muttered, and after a moment, he’d cast a ball of white light into the air. He squinted hard for a moment. “Ophelia?”

Molly appeared beside him. “Who is it?”

“Go back inside,” he gently urged, “I’ll speak with her.”

She became visibly indignant. “Arthur, we don’t—”

“Molly, please. She doesn’t look well.”

She cast her husband a withering look, before turning to storm away in a huff.

“I’m sorry,” Ophelia choked, rubbing weakly at her eyes.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, my dear,” he said gently, extending a hand to her.

She shook her head. “No, I… I didn’t— D-didn’t know where else to go, I…”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he reassured her with a smile. “Tea?”


	23. Ladytron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my chapter titles are either song name or lyrics. And if you only ever "listen" to one chapter, then I beg of you, make it this one. There isn't a piece of music in the world that better captures the spirit of my beautiful thieves.

She kept up her frequent visits to Diagon Alley, all throughout the summer. Whenever she could, she’d sneak in just around closing. It made her so happy to see how their customers would light up with joy at the sight of their magic. Sometimes, she would linger in some quiet corner and watch her lovers work, entirely unbeknownst to them. They were beautiful. Proud and confident and brilliantly funny. And when she would finally announce herself, after they’d locked the doors for the night, it always gave them a terrible shock. She found it an endlessly amusing little game.

One such evening, she slipped silently through the front door, and the first thing she noticed was the silence. The still void, in place of their typically loud joking and bickering. To their credit, it was much later than usual. It had been nearly midnight by the time she’d been able to slip away from Château Lestrange, for all of her aunt’s fretting and frantic plotting. Though she had never seen any evidence of love shared between _Monsieur et Madame Lestrange_ , Ophelia could not deny: Rodolphus’ absence seemed to have driven Bellatrix temporarily mad. All she did was pace around the house, whispering insane ideas about either breaking him out, or turning herself in so she could be with him.

It was not something Ophelia could bear witness to for long. She needed the familiarity of the twins. The strange, reassuring sense of safety they provided, despite all of their chaos.

She found them, at last, in the cramped workshop off the stockroom. Fred was slumped over, resting face-down on the table, snoring softly. And, she noted, his hair seemed to have gone completely purple. But George was still working, hunched over a dizzying array of phials and scattered ingredients. Although he, too, seemed to be losing steam.

She stepped up behind him, slipping her arms up under his and leaning down over his shoulder.

“Mmm, hey,” he sleepily acknowledged, putting a hand over hers, “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered tenderly, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I got held up.”

“What time is it?” he asked, trying to blink the sleep from his widening eyes.

She squeezed him tightly, brushing the tip of her nose along the shell of his left ear. “Mmm, just after midnight.”

“Damn, is that really all?”

“What are you making here, my love?” she asked, reaching out to fiddle with the detritus on the table.

“I don’t even remember.”

She smiled, gazing over at their companion. “I think we’ve lost Freddie.”

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“Why is his hair purple?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Come on,” she coaxed, gently pulling him to his feet, “Let’s go to bed.”

He chuckled, stretching his arms high up over his head. His back popped. “ _Sleep_ , or _bed_?”

“I really think it ought to be _sleep_ , my darling,” she said gently, “You’re looking rather knackered.”

He made a sound halfway between a yawn and a laugh. “ _Rather knackered,_ god you’re cute.” He reached across the table to palm the back of Fred’s head. “Oi,” he murmured, shaking him lightly.

“Mmm?” he groaned, beginning to stir, “Whassamatter?”

“O’s here. ‘S go to bed.”

He hauled himself up into a seated position with what seemed like great effort. “It’s about bloody time. My hair still purple?”

“Yes, darling,” she confirmed, pulling him to his feet, “Come on, now,”

Still half asleep, he stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms across her chest. “ _Sleep_ , or _bed_?”

“Sleep, Freddie.”

“Yeah,” he yawned. Leaning heavily on her, he began to steer her awkwardly towards the stairs. “Yeah, alright.”

When they reached the flat, she transfigured the beds together, and laid Fred down. He offered virtually no assistance as she stripped away his clothes and shoes. She assumed that trying to work his limbs into his pajamas would be too involved a production, so she left him as he was. And, within moments, he was snoring again. Only then did Ophelia notice that George was leaning in the doorway, looking much more awake than he’d been when she’d arrived.

“Well, I’m up, now,” he whispered, “Don’t reckon I’ll be able to fall asleep again for a while.”

After a beat, she impulsively asked, “Have you got anything to drink?”

“Good girl,” he beamed, beckoning her back out towards the kitchen. She planted a kiss on Fred’s forehead, to which he did not react in the slightest, and then followed George back out of the room.

He set about pouring them each a finger or two of fire whiskey, while she flung her cloak over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and settled in.

“Thank you, darling,” she said gratefully, and they raised their glasses to nothing in particular. She took a small golden case from her pocket, gracefully withdrawing one of her long, black cigarettes. “May I?”

He reached across the table, and lit it for her with a tiny flame from the tip of his wand.

She breathed deeply, and then exhaled a grateful, “Thank you,” on a cloud of purple smoke.

“You look tired,” he remarked, pocketing his wand again.

She nodded. “I am tired.”

“Do you want to sleep?”

She cast him a sad smile. “I don’t think it’s that kind of tired, my love.”

His eyes flitted across her face for a moment before coming to rest on her cigarette. “Can I?”

Curiously amused, she offered it out to him. He held it awkwardly as he took a deep, albeit cautious draw. And then, after a moment, he began coughing up every color of the rainbow, and thrust the cigarette back into her hand.

“My sweet boy,” she giggled.

“I’ll stick with my whiskey, thanks,” he grimaced as an odd shiver moved across his skin. “God, that tastes horrible. Is it supposed to make my blood feel like it’s _vibrating_?”

She nodded, settling deeper into her chair.

“Where, er… Where were you, tonight?”

Ophelia took a deep, stilling drag from her cigarette. “Château Lestrange,” she finally confessed, eyes fixed on a tiny burn on the tabletop.

“What, now?”

“My family has a castle, out in the countryside. I’m there a lot, these days. Just me and Bellatrix.”

George smiled, ignoring the last bit entirely. “What, like a _castle_ , castle? Like Hogwarts?”

“Smaller than Hogwarts,” she appraised, “But bigger than Malfoy Manor. Definitely bigger than their little place.”

He sat back in his chair, excitement mounting. This was the first he’d heard of any family castle. “What’s it like?”

It was a long time before she answered.

“O?”

She shook her head, casting him a smile that seemed very forced. “I suppose I’ll just have to take you there, someday.”

“It’ll be yours, after the war, won’t it?” he realized aloud, “That’s cool.”

The comment seemed to sap her of whatever happiness she had left. George could see it. And though he didn’t quite understand what had made her so sad, he reached across the table for her hand. She took it, but she did not look at him.

George’s face suddenly lit up. “Hey! Dance with me!”

Ophelia cast him a weary, half smile. “What?”

“Dance with me!” he coaxed, getting to his feet, “Put that rubbish out, drink the rest of this—” he snatched the cigarette away and thrust her half-empty glass into her hand, “—and dance with me!”

“Have you gone ‘round the bend?” she teased. Nevertheless, she downed the rest of her drink in a single gulp as he vanished the cigarette.

“Come on,” he almost begged, crossing the room towards the record player, “You’ve danced with Augustin Travers twice now, but never with me!”

She rolled her eyes at his Anglicized pronunciation. _Augusteen_ , he said. Sinking his teeth into every consonant in the surname.

“Augu _stin_ ,” she corrected, “Like _Stan,_ but you put the ‘n’ all the way on the back of your tongue.”

He rolled his eyes, too, though she couldn’t see it as he rifled through the stack of records. “As if I give a flying _fifth_ of a fuck, Ophelia. Ahh, this is the one, right here…” He made his selection, and set it spinning on the turntable.

When the high, ethereal oboe faded in, Ophelia couldn’t help but smile. “I bought you this record for Christmas.”

“Damn right, you did,” he beamed, taking her by the hand and dragging her towards the center of the room.

“You know I’m rubbish at dancing,” she admitted, as he took her by the waist.

He shrugged. “So am I.”

She looked down between them. “Our feet may be too big for this.”

George laughed, holding her hand aloft in his. “I don’t care.” As the vocals began, he led her through an easy sway.

_“You’ve got me, girl, on the run around, run around,_

_Got me all around town._

_You’ve got me, girl, on the run around,_

_And it’s gettin’ me down, gettin’ me down.”_

George beamed, yanking her close, and began to sing along.

_“Lady, if you wanna find a lover,_

_Then you look no further,_

_‘Cause I’m gonna be your only.”_

“That’s not true,” she giggled.

“Shh!”

Ophelia laughed, leaning in to nuzzle into his face. He put his hands on her hips, pulling her in and holding them tight against his. She realized she had no idea whatsoever what to do with her own hands, so she wrapped one around the back of his neck. It seemed to be right.

_“Searching at the start of the season,_

_And the only reason,_

_Is that I get to you.”_

As the oboe danced and trilled, high up above, George’s lead became all the more chaotic. He whipped and spun her around, and she struggled to keep her feet beneath her, but she didn’t care. The smile on her face was bright and radiant, and in that moment, she couldn’t recall ever having felt happier.

_“I'll find some way of connection,_

_Hiding my intention,_

_Then I'll move up close to you.”_

At the lyric, he flung her out at arm’s length, and yanked her back into a hard kiss. Their teeth knocked together. She laughed. She could feel him laugh, too.

_“I'll use you, and I'll confuse you,_

_And then I'll lose you,_

_Still you won't suspect me.”_

The sound of the electric guitar, as it wailed into a dramatic solo, seemed to trigger some form of physical madness in George. But, for all of his thrashing and flailing, Ophelia managed to hang on. Narrowly avoiding tripping on her long skirt, he plunged her back into a dip. She laughed madly, and threw one of her legs up high, knocking him off-balance and nearly kicking him in the head in the process. And when he yanked her back up, he slipped his hands down to the back of her thighs and lifted her up into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, sinking gratefully into his kiss.

Foreheads resting together, they panted and smiled. George stepped them through a slow, languid spin, clinging to her as though he were afraid she’d slip away.

“I rather think we’re rubbish at that,” Ophelia observed jokingly.

“Never mind, eh?” he dismissed, “We’ll have the rest of our lives to get the hang of it, won’t we?” His heart skipped a beat at the kneejerk admission, and he hoped, briefly, that it had gone unnoticed.

“What?” she asked, pulling back to look at his face.

He paused their spin, and his face went a deep red as he made a concerted effort to avoid her gaze. “Nothing.”

“Not _nothing_.” She put a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look up at her.

At the sight of those violet eyes, so close to his, he was powerless. “I dunno,” he stammered, “I just reckon we’ll probably have the rest of our lives to sort out how to dance with each other. But if you don’t—”

“I love you,” she blurted.

A heavy weight seemed to suddenly lift from his shoulders. He smiled broadly; the kind of smile that brightened and lifted at his entire face. “I love you too.”

“ _Oi_!” a sleepy voice sounded from the bedroom, “If you’re gonna be bloody _disgusting_ with each other, out there, at least have the decency to be _quiet_ about it!”

“I’m sorry, Freddie,” she giggled, “You have my word: nothing untoward has happened.”

“Yeah, yeah…” His voice faded out again.

George shook his head. “What a wanker.”

“Should we go to bed?” she offered, running her fingers back through his hair.

“Yeah,” he conceded, setting her back down, “I reckon we should.”


End file.
